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LIBRARY 

SAN  ©V-^'^V 


EL  TORO 

A  MOTOR  CAR   STORY 
OF    INTERIOR    CUBA 


.8T  ijOAM  ajii 


DETROIT 
PACKARD    MOTOR    CAR    COMPANY 


1 


s'    xcfre    Ml 


n ...  ...  ('  forced  to 

nni   ,c'ith  one  wheel  (m  a  glopitig  side  wall 
ind  the  i/fJur  an  the  crest  of  the  deepest 


EL  TORO 

A  MOTOR  CAR   STORY 
OF    INTERIOR    CUBA 


BY 
E.   RALPH   ESTEP 


DETROIT 
PACKARD    MOTOR    CAR    COMPANY 

1909 
Ali,    Rights   Reserved 


Copyright,  1909 
By  Packard  Motor  Car  Company 


Printed  by 

The  Matthews-Northrup  Works 

Buffalo 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  Many  of  the  mountain  passes  were  so  narrow  *  *  *  that 
we  were  forced  to  run  with  one  wheel  on  a  sloping  side  wall 
and  the  other  on  the  crest  of  the  deepest  rut,"  .     .  Frontispiece 

"Once  in  awliile  a  good  sort  of  winding  dirt  road  gave  promise 

of  speed," 10 

"  Insular  urchins,  partly  curious  and  partly  fearful,  were  half- 
hidden  in  the  doorways," 22 

"  Everywhere  was  stone      *      ♦      *     Each  mile  was  gained  by 

defiant  effort," 22 

"  A  hill  like  a  natural  stairway  of  great,  rough  limestone  steps,"     28 

"The   clearance   of    an   ox  cart   is   thirty-eight  to   forty-eight 

inches," 32 

"  At  Jaruca,  the  whole  town  joined  us  at  luncheon,"      ....     32 

"  Through  the  clear  rippling  water  of  this  first  river  the  car  shot 

with  a  great  splurge," 36 

"  We   drove    under  the  everlasting  palms  and  among  boulders 

half-hidden  in  the  luxuriant  grass," 44 

"  On  these  ruts  we  tore  tires  off  the   wheels   at  two   miles  an 

hour," 56 

"We  enjoyed  the  rare  experience  of  'beating  it,'" 56 

"  Palm  trees  by  the  thousand,  and,  scattered  among  them,  small 

ponds  made  by  heavy  rainfall," 62 

"  The  car  looked  like  some  big  black  beast,  wallowing  along  in 

boundless  marsh," 62 

"  The  valley  became  muddier  and  muddier," 68 

"  The  sun's  farewell  glance  spread  a  woven  gold  mantilla  on  the 
naked  shoulders  of  a  grim,  forbidding  world  and  the  motor 
car  sank,  helpless,  into  the  mud  as  if,  also,  its  day  was 
done," 68 

"  A  river  would  be  reached  by  following  down  a  tortuous  pass,"     74 

"  We  had  to  ford  ♦  *  *  ^  fast  flowing  torrent  set  down  in  a 
gorge  *  *  *  which  had  no  path  leading  to  a  crossing  of 
any  kind," 82 

"  Digging  to  obtain  a  footing  for  the  wheels   in   the   roughest 

ravines," 90 

"  At  last  we  found  the  promised  highway," 100 

"  The   oldest   cathedral   in   Cuba,  weatherbeaten,   but   proudly 

rising  over  the  low  tiled  houses  of  the  town," 100 


PREFACE 

OCCASIONALLY  business  has  experiences 
which  are  interesting  on  their  own 
account.  To  set  them  down  in  words  is  an 
agreeable  task  and  entirely  different  from  the 
making  of  business  literature  of  the  familiar 
kinds.  This  narrative  is  just  the  relation  of  what 
happened,  when,  on  other  business  bent,  we 
strayed  into  the  unknown  and  stayed  to  have  a 
motoring  experience,  which  was  far  enough  from 
the  conventional  to  deserve  a  place  in  the  realm 
of  adventure.  The  tale  is  here  recounted  in  the 
hope  that  it  will  possess  for  others  a  degree  of  the 
interest  which,  for  ourselves,  has  made  it  a  sub- 
stantial part  of  our  recollections.  Most  of  all, 
ye  unworthy  scribe  hopes  that  the  narration  will 
be  acceptable  to  those  who  made  it  possible — to 
Sidney  D.  Waldon,  father  of  the  great  idea  and 
leading  spirit  of  the  enterprise  resulting  there- 
from, Edwin  S.  George,  Fred  Crebbin  and 
Rogelio  Gaarken. 

E.  R.  E. 
Detroit,  April,  1909. 


CHAPTER  I 

Direct  not  him,  whose  wny  himgfilf  xt-ill  rhorme ; 
' Tis  h^fath  thou  lark'sf,  ami  fhot  tmnth  wilt  thmt  /<<.s> 

-  Rk'-h«rd  n. 


111-: 


I  ED  and  vivid  against 
the  dense  night,  a 
cam})  firf  of  palm 
.,o^^»Kfe^^\f<iw  i^^itte^d,  and 
VoVvs*?f^^^-'^i^^'^i'^^"^^"tary 
glare  illumined  one  of 
those  strange  scenes,  occa- 
sioned by  strange  people 
oned  in  a  strange  place. 
]if«  vv.  ,vld,  which  seemed 
diut  out.  on  the 
tTPC«  sharply  silhou- 
etted against  the  soujfjti  bky  and,  on  the  other, 
bv  n  b?uTier  of  hills.  -  , 

e  up  against  it? "  Crebbin  spoke. 
'  if  you  mean  by  *it'  that  hill  yonder,  we  are." 
Waldon  ans'wered. 

Three  jaded  men  sat  around  the  fire.  Like  the 
fire,  their  conversation  had  flamed  and  gone  out. 
They  gazed  into  the  darkening  embers,  mused  on 
the  strangeness  of  some  things  and  speculated  on 

I  11  ] 


one  side,  by  a  reel 


Ortce  in  a  while  a  gt>od  sofi  of  ^vindint 
dirt  road,  gave  promise  vf  !fpe;ed.  " 


CHAPTER  I 

Direct  not  him,  whose  way  himself  xpUI  choose ; 
^Tis  breath  thou  lacWst,  and  that  breath  wilt  thou  lose. 

—  Richard  II. 

ED  and  vivid  against 
the  dense  night,  a 
camp  fire  of  palm 
bark  flared,  fluttered,  and 
went  out.  Its  momentary 
glare  illumined  one  of 
those  strange  scenes,  occa- 
sioned by  strange  people 
I  being  marooned  in  a  strange  place. 
The  rest  of  the  world,  which  seemed 
very  far  away,  was  shut  out,  on  the 
one  side,  by  a  reef  of  palm  trees  sharply  silhou- 
etted against  the  somber  sky  and,  on  the  other, 
by  a  barrier  of  hills. 

"  Are  we  up  against  it? "  Crebbin  spoke. 
"  If  you  mean  by  'it '  that  hill  yonder,  we  are." 
Waldon  answered. 

Three  jaded  men  sat  around  the  fire.  Like  the 
fire,  their  conversation  had  flamed  and  gone  out. 
They  gazed  into  the  darkening  embers,  mused  on 
the  strangeness  of  some  things  and  speculated  on 

[  11] 


the  final  solution  of  the  problem  which  was  theirs 
by  reason  of  their  present  whereabouts.  A  palm 
tree,  which  had  never  before  enjoyed  the  com- 
pany of  a  four-wheeled  vehicle,  stood  sentinel 
over  an  automobile,  from  whose  tonneau  pro- 
truded the  feet  of  a  folded  and,  presumably, 
sleeping  figure.  On  a  bed  of  brush  slumbered 
the  only  one  of  the  party  who  was  native  to  the 
country  and  thereby  accustomed  to  its  lack  of 
things  comfortable.  The  others  had  abandoned 
this  bed  on  which  they  could  not  sleep, had  scoured 
the  unfamiliar  woods  for  fuel  and  had  amused 
themselves  by  keeping  an  unnecessary  fire  ablaze, 
for  the  mere  companionship  of  its  warmth  and 
for  its  light,  which  drove  away  the  trepidation  of 
loneliness.  There  was  no  noise,  except  the  strange 
sounds  from  the  underbrush  and  palm  forests. 

The  strangers  were  ourselves.  The  native  was 
our  interpreter. 

We  were  thirty  miles  from  Havana,  Cuba.  In 
our  sleepy  thoughts,  Cuba  was  a  mighty  big  place, 
Havana  far  away  and  our  own  homes  as  distant 
and  chimerical  as  the  moon.  The  moon  did  not 
shine  on  that  part  of  Cuba  that  night.  We  were 
a  discouraged  bunch,  with  only  a  few  stars  on 
which  to  hang  our  sense  of  location.  Our  hopes 
were  in  cold  storage.  We  marveled  at  the  wild- 
ness  of  a  land  that  was  figuratively  but  a  few 
steps  from  the  gay  and  careless  Havana.  We 
laughed  hysterically  at  the  recollection  of  our 
day's  performance  in  bringing  the  car  over  the 
roadless  country  whose  stone  trails  are  followed 
only  by  ox  carts  and  ponies. 

[12] 


Remembering  we  were  bound  across  the  island 
to  one  of  the  oldest  of  its  very  old  towns,  we 
realized  that,  when  dawn  should  raise  the  curtain 
on  the  scene  night  had  shut  out,  we  would  be  al- 
most up  against  the  impossible.  However,  we 
did  not  seek  to  pry  into  the  future.  We  simply 
tried  to  neglect  it.  We  were  not  sure  where  we 
were  and  we  did  not  care  very  much,  because  it 
made  no  difference.  It  was  just  about  as  hard 
to  get  into  and  out  of  one  place  as  another.  We 
had  learned  much  about  Cuba  in  a  few  hours. 

We  imitated  sleep  with  apathy.  Occasionally, 
we  tried  to  bring  the  real  world  back  to  us,  by 
noisily  gathering  more  fallen  palm  bark  for  the 
fire.  Palm  bark  makes  a  poor  fire  for  the  cheer- 
ing of  lonely  spirits.  It  is  a  fickle  stimulant,  the 
effect  being  great  while  it  lasts,  but  it  does  not 
last  long  enough  to  give  any  real  comfort.  The 
dead,  dark,  cold  night  was  depressing. 

We  were  startled  like  children  when  the  thun- 
dering of  near-by  hoofs  awoke  us  to  the  fact  that 
we  were  no  longer  alone.  The  insurgents  were 
busy  in  Cuba  just  then  and  we  had  not  been  there 
long  enough  to  learn  that  Cuba  and  insurgents 
are  not  bad,  but  just  naughty.  The  disturbers 
were  as  surprised  as  we.  One  was  a  country 
doctor  who  was  riding  miles  to  visit  a  stricken 
"  spiggotie  "  in  some  distant  hut. 

A  spiggotie  is  any  kind  of  a  provincial  Cuban, 
when  mentioned  by  an  outsider.  He  is  one  of 
that  species  of  uncertain  race  which  populates  the 
Spanish-American  countries  and  makes  it  difficult 
for  a  visitor  to  draw  a  color  line  between  negro 

[13] 


and  Castillian  blood.  I  have  also  met  spiggoties 
who  were  a  charming  mixture  of  Spanish,  negro, 
and  Chinese. 

The  doctor  looked  down  from  his  pony  at  us 
in  wonder.  His  servant  on  the  other  pony 
was  alarmed.  Presumably,  he  never  had  seen  an 
automobile  before.  Having  lived  in  the  midst 
of  three  or  four  puny  wars  and  one  real  one,  he 
showed  the  common  spiggotie  attitude  of  being 
suspicious  of  everything  that  was  not  Cuban  and 
regular.  The  doctor  gave  us  the  customary 
"que  hay,"  and  we  awakened  the  interpreter  to 
say  it  back  to  him. 

A  Cuban  does  not  say  much,  but  he  uses  a  lot 
of  words  on  the  job  and  is  willing  to  put  a  highly 
dramatic  touch  to  the  most  trivial  question  or 
remark.  Our  interpreter  was  fully  impressed 
with  the  honor  of  being  a  part  of  the  first  auto- 
mobile expedition  across  the  rough  provinces  of 
Cuba.  The  rattle  of  Spanish  was  like  two  kettle 
drums  in  action  together. 

Evidently,  the  doctor  asked  all  that  could  be 
asked  and  the  interpreter  told  him  more  about  us 
than  we  could  have  told  him.  We  tried  to  break 
into  the  conversation,  but  the  interpreter  was  dis- 
posed to  consider  our  assistance  as  a  hindrance. 
We  pried  one  unconsoling  fact  out  of  him.  The 
doctor  thought  we  were  more  than  right  in  sup- 
posing we  might  be  up  against  it.  He  named 
about  a  hundred  rivers  and  a  thousand  hills 
which  were  impassable.  He  explained  that  the 
trail  we  were  following  did  not  lead  anywhere, 
that  there  was  no  trail  which  led  anywhere  and 

i  [14] 


that  there  was  no  road  which  could  be  followed. 
He  said  that  we  would  have  to  go  back.  Then 
he  said  that  we  could  not  go  back.  That  we  had 
come  this  far  seemed  only  to  impress  him  with 
the  fact  that  we  must  have  dropped  out  of  a  cloud 
or  come  in  an  airship.  It  was  certainly  impos- 
sible to  make  him  believe  we  had  driven  an  auto- 
mobile from  Havana. 

Thirty  miles  is  a  short  distance  for  an  auto- 
mobile in  some  places.  Between  Philadelphia 
and  New  York  it  is  a  matter  of  thirty  minutes. 
It  had  been  a  matter  of  five  or  six  hours  with  us, 
there  in  Cuba.  We  were  glad  to  have  the  doctor 
go  on  his  way,  for  we  had  heard  enough  about 
deep  rivers,  steep  hills,  walls  of  rock,  and  crooked 
gullies.  We  wanted  to  think  about  something 
else  until  daylight.  At  least  we  had  rather  think 
about  what  had  been  than  what  was  to  come.  It 
seemed  strange  that  so  much  could  have  hap- 
pened in  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

There  was  an  element  of  humor  in  our  plight, 
but  we  were  not  in  a  humorous  mood.  There 
was  great  beauty  in  the  wild,  dark  night  for  those 
who  were  used  to  the  quiet,  homespun  nights  of 
Wayne  County,  Michigan.  We  knew  that  we 
were  missing  the  enchantment  of  the  hour,  but 
we  were  not  in  the  mood  to  mind  missing  any- 
thing. 

We  were  the  victims  of  our  own  imagination 
rather  than  the  victims  of  circumstances.  We 
had  imagined  that  Cuba  was  a  sort  of  national  park 
with  an  immense  system  of  boulevards.  There 
is   one  magnificent  highway  in  Cuba,  fifty-two 

[  15] 


miles  long,  which  reaches  from  Havana  to  San 
Cristobal.  In  publicity  it  reaches  around  the 
world.  It  has  been  the  course  of  automobile  road 
races.  Automobile  writers,  attending  said  auto- 
mobile races,  wrote  columns  about  the  beautiful 
Cubaland,  in  which  the  wandering  motorist  from 
the  north  may  drive  as  fast  as  he  likes,  while 
balmy  breezes  blow  across  the  palm-sentineled 
macadam.  The  government  has  started  a  road 
from  Havana  eastward  across  the  island.  Some 
of  this  has  been  surveyed,  a  little  of  it  graded 
and  it  actually  exists  for  a  half-dozen  miles  out 
of  Havana.  Down  in  Santiago  province.  General 
Wood  has  built  a  road  or  two.  The  middle  of 
the  island  is  roadless.  There  is  no  continuous 
travel  by  vehicle. 

Havana  presents  a  wrong  idea  of  Cuba.  It  is 
a  tourists'  town.  It  has  boulevards  and  carriages. 
Cuba  has  wandering  trails  and  ox  carts.  No  four- 
wheeled  vehicle  is  used  outside  the  towns.  Prob- 
ably no  vehicle  of  any  kind,  unless  in  time  of 
war,  ever  has  made  a  continuous  journey  across 
the  island.  The  ox  carts  are  for  local  travel. 
Cross  country  travel  is  on  foot  or  on  ponies. 

Yesterday,  on  the  little  coast  steamer  which 
carried  us  across  the  gulf,  we  had  discussed  with 
eager  expectance  the  fascinations  of  touring  in 
Cuba,  as  presented  in  the  steamship  company's 
alluring  pamphlets.  We  had  come  south  with  a 
Packard  car  to  run  it  fast  and  furiously  for  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  miles  under  hot  weather 
conditions.  A  Cuban  on  the  steamer  listened 
while  we  recounted  our  plans  for  this  great  try- 

[16] 


ing  out  of  the  speed  and  endurance  of  our  motor 
car.     He  asked  us: 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  Cuba  ?  "  and,  upon  our 
negative  reply: 

"  Do  you  really  think  you  can  drive  an  auto- 
mobile through  the  interior  of  Cuba  ? " 

We  assured  him  that  we  could  drive  one  any- 
where, but  he  merely  laughed  and  sauntered 
away  to  tell  the  other  passengers  what  seemed  to 
him  to  be  a  funny  story.  Other  Cubans  talked 
to  us.  They  were  all  iconoclasts  and  some  of 
them  were  plain  "knockers."  At  first  we  were 
insulted  and  then  our  peace  of  mind  was  de- 
stroyed. Slowly,  but  surely,  we  approached  the 
truth.  Everywhere  we  turned  for  a  reassuring 
opinion  concerning  the  suppositious  highways, 
we  got  the  same  answer : 

"There  are  no  roads  ;    you  can't  do  it." 

They  all  explained  the  impossibility  of  travers- 
ing its  valley  lands  and  mountain  regions,  of 
making  even  a  most  laborious  way  across  the 
arroyos,  through  the  bridgeless  rivers,  over  the 
barren  stone,  and  in  the  wide  swamps.  There  are 
roads  on  the  map.  The  maps  were  originally 
made  by  Spaniards  with  a  greater  regard  for  neat 
drafting  than  the  truth.  It  is  hard  to  find  those 
roads  on  the  earth.  Their  course  occasionally  is 
marked  by  washouts. 

We  slept  on  the  information  but  gained  noth- 
ing. This  day  we  had  left  our  cabins  early,  to 
catch  the  first  morning  glimpse  of  the  beautiful 
harbor  of  Havana.  As  we  looked  upon  its  blue 
shores,  under  the  bluer  sky,  and  felt  the  charm 

[  17] 


of  early  southern  morn,  it  seemed  impossible 
that  such  a  most  excellent  place  to  come  to  could 
be  without  roads  leading  from  one  beauty  spot 
to  another. 

The  original  Cuban  came  along  with  a  parting 
slam  at  our  hopes.  We  were  saved  from  develop- 
ing a  streak  of  yellow  by  being  carried  to  ^  close 
view  of  the  sunken  "Maine."  While  our  little 
ship  was  at  anchor,  waiting  for  the  tender  to  land 
its  passengers,  we  surveyed  that  unprecedented 
monument  resting  in  the  middle  of  Havana  har- 
bor and  our  American  blood  created  a  stubborn 
desire  to  conquer  Cuba,  roads  or  no  roads,  if  it 
took  all  the  gasoline  in  the  world  and  all  the 
tires  in  Akron,  Ohio. 

We  were  whisked  from  dreamland  into  the 
confusion  of  the  custom-house.  Meekly  as  pos- 
sible, we  suffered  the  high-handed  tactics  of  the 
revenue  officers.  These  new  Cuban  officials, 
who  used  to  be  flunkeys  in  the  household  of  Spain, 
with  their  new  freedom  and  their  new  uniforms, 
are  arrogant.  Some  day,  if  he  has  not  already 
done  so,  an  American  chap,  with  more  valor  than 
discretion,  is  going  to  jail  for  hitting  one  of  them. 

It  is  a  land  of  maiiana,  these  being  the  head- 
quarters. You  can  do  anything  to-morrow.  All 
you  can  do  to-day  is  to  fume  and  go  up  to  the 
Prado,  where  there  is  a  good  street  eating  store, 
and  get  acquainted  with  cafe  con  leche.  Every 
addition  to  our  list  of  Cuban  acquaintances  added 
further  proof  of  the  impassability  of  the  Cuban 
interior.  It  is  easy  to  be  bold  before  the  battle. 
We  felt  as  bold  as  Moro  Castle  looked  across 

[18] 


the  bay,  when  we  drove  around  the  beautiful 
shore  drive  toward  Camp  Columbia  and  for  a 
wild,  hilarious  rush  out  on  the  wonderful  San 
Cristobal  road.  We  rushed  back  again  to  Havana 
because  we  were  eager  to  tackle  the  impossible. 

Two  native  sugar  planters,  who  had  grown 
white  haired  in  middle  Cuba,  were  introduced  to 
us  at  the  Hotel  Pasaje,  as  conclusive  evidence 
that  we  were  venturing  on  a  dangerous  and 
incredible  journey.  We  listened  to  them  while 
we  changed  our  northern  garb  for  clothes  more 
suitable  to  the  task  ahead  of  us.  At  the  local 
garage,  we  engaged  an  interpreter,  commonly 
known  as  "Cuba."  He  had  had  some  experience 
as  a  chauffeur  and  was  the  only  person  we  could 
find  who  seemed  to  think  there  might  be  a  chance 
of  getting  beyond  the  eastern  limits  of  the  city. 
The  proprietor  of  the  garage  cheerfully  assured 
us  that  we  would  never  reach  Matanzas. 

So  we  left  Havana. 

Driving  on  the  boulevard  which  sweeps  around 
the  harbor,  it  was  incredible  that  the  ending 
should  be  a  great  desert  of  broken  rock.  We 
did  not  speculate  on  the  future,  but  were  satisfied 
to  rush  over  the  undulating  macadam,  rolling  up 
an  immense  funnel  of  white  dust  which  spread 
clear  to  the  tops  of  the  regal  palms  along  the 
roadside. 

Our  future  was  hidden  by  the  hills  in  front  of 
us.  We  did  not  care.  It  was  enough,  just  to 
dash  at  racing  speed  past  little  scarlet  Edens 
among  the  bright  flambollan  flowers,  where  the 
silver-tongued  moscareta  warbled   his  southern 

[  19] 


song  behind  the  leaves  of  the  spreading  laurel  and 
the  merry  tomequin  answered  from  the  majestic 
ceiba.  It  was  enough,  just  to  fly  past  palm- 
thatched  huts  and  wave  at  the  insular  urchins 
who,  partly  curious  and  partly  fearful,  were  half- 
hidden  in  the  doorways.  It  was  enough,  just  to 
watch  the  little  speck  on  the  far  hillside  become 
a  bold,  commanding  block-house  as  we  raced 
toward  it.  Block-houses  are  still  popular  in 
Cuba.  One  meets  up  with  a  block-house  on 
almost  any  hillside,  whether  or  not  there  is  any 
apparent  habitation  in  the  region. 

A  few  miles  and  it  all  ended.  The  boulevard 
became  merely  a  long  stretch  of  rough  white 
stones — a  new  generation  of  road  in  the  making — 
level  and  almost  straight,  but  with  no  surface 
over  the  jagged  rocks  and  no  bridges  over  the 
many  streams.  So  we  drove,  part  of  the  time 
over  the  rocks  and  part  of  the  time  in  the  rut- 
worn  gully  below.  It  was  hard  going,  but  not 
impossible.  Anyway,  it  did  not  last  long  because 
this  particular  road  ceased  entirely.  We  were  in 
the  middle  of  Cuba. 

A  mere  path  straggled  over  and  among  the 
hills  and  was  lost  in  the  great  patches  of  native 
rock.  We  began  to  take  the  country  seriously. 
Trepidation  mingled  with  curiosity.  Once  in  a 
while  a  good  sort  of  winding  dirt  road  gave 
promise  of  speed,  only  to  change,  like  a  dissolv- 
ing lantern  slide,  to  a  staggering  trail  over  the 
rocks  or  between  them.  The  stones  increased  in 
number  and  in  size.  Each  occasional  break  in 
the   bumping,   swaying,  swinging,   car-racking, 

i  [  20  ] 


Msi 


:t£3kA. 


tire-tearing  progress  became  shorter.  We  forgot 
the  stately  pahns,  the  queer  huts,  and  the  beauti- 
ful red  flowers.  W'^e-did  not  even  hear  the  even- 
ing song  of  the  many  birds. 

Everywhere  was  stone.  Even  the  rough  fields 
were  so  littered  with  loose  rock  that  cultivation 
had  not  been  tried.  Each  mile  was  gained  by 
defiant  efjbrf,  We.bee-aji  to  worry  ovf'r  th^  fact 
that,  nor  only  were  the  dOroDnets  vindicated,  but 


their  pJ'^J^^^i^  Tiad  toretouf  worse  conditions 
the  farther  we  went  eastward.  We  thumped 
along  to  a  deep  valley  fr«  '      'tnn  the 

sun  had  aliTiidv  Hed  and  on     .  a  great 

ty  k  art^se  to  dispute  our  way. 

>  AS  it  does  in  New 

ILji!^i  viiU.  41,     ',.i..|/^,    x>i       l:^<,..  '       •  SUapS    lutO 

night.     Twilight  is  not  long  c  to  desei've 

the  name.  The  task  of  getting  to  the  opposite 
crown  of  the  valley  was  too  great  for  the  few 
minutes  of  remaining  daylight;  so  we  camped. 
We  were  not  prepared  for-  camping,  because  we 
had  anticipated  sptJiuiing  our  nights  in  villages 
or  towns.  We  had  leunicii  a  lot  tliat  afternoon 
and  were  still  growing  in  wisdom.  We  made 
particular  note  of  the  ppi^it  that  when  one  is 
travel  in^throtigR  tRat'wp^ntJpy  "n^'«vn¥Jit*or  car 
his  niglit  stop'ldti%jftw«Jl>ly^ife^^««^e<»iy^here  he 
happens%)*t>e  Wiien  tlie  sun  sets. 

That  was  a  wonderful  liight.  It  was  dark  when 
three  of  us,  including  the  intei-preter,  struck  into 
the  region  of  awesome  shadows  and  shivering 
noises,  seeking  habitation  and  food.  We  could 
see  nothing.      We  simply  wandered  and  yelled 


,:,  -^-inV. 


b^Insular  urchim,  partly  ind  parti 

''  d,  mire  hatfhuldenm  the  doorway n. 


Fjufi 


tire-tearing  progress  became  shorter.  We  forgot 
the  stately  palms,  the  queer  huts,  and  the  beauti- 
ful red  flowers.  We  did  not  even  hear  the  even- 
ing song  of  the  many  birds. 

Everywhere  was  stone.  Even  the  rough  fields 
were  so  littered  with  loose  rock  that  cultivation 
had  not  been  tried.  Each  mile  was  gained  by 
defiant  effort.  We  began  to  worry  over  the  fact 
that,  not  only  were  the  prophets  vindicated,  but 
their  prophecies  had  foretold  worse  conditions 
the  farther  we  went  eastward.  We  thumped 
along  to  a  deep  valley  from  whose  bottom  the 
sun  had  already  fled  and  on  whose  far  side  a  great 
bluff"  of  solid  rock  arose  to  dispute  our  way. 

Night  does  not  settle  in  Cuba  as  it  does  in  New 
England.  It  snaps,  or,  rather,  day  snaps  into 
night.  Twilight  is  not  long  enough  to  deserve 
the  name.  The  task  of  getting  to  the  opposite 
crown  of  the  valley  was  too  great  for  the  few 
minutes  of  remaining  daylight;  so  we  camped. 
We  were  not  prepared  for  camping,  because  we 
had  anticipated  spending  our  nights  in  villages 
or  towns.  We  had  learned  a  lot  that  afternoon 
and  were  still  growing  in  wisdom.  We  made 
particular  note  of  the  point  that  when  one  is 
traveling  through  that  country  in  a  motor  car 
his  night  stop  is  invariably  just  exactly  where  he 
happens  to  be  when  the  sun  sets. 

That  was  a  wonderful  night.  It  was  dark  when 
three  of  us,  including  the  interpreter,  struck  into 
the  region  of  awesome  shadows  and  shivering 
noises,  seeking  habitation  and  food.  We  could 
see  nothing.      We  simply  wandered  and  yelled 

[23] 


to  attract  attention.  Every  time  we  sent  a  loud 
"que  hay"  reverberating  among  the  hills,  we 
jumped  at  our  own  temerity.  At  last  a  hound 
bayed  in  answer  and  a  feeble  light  flickered  far 
off*,  up  in  the  sky.  We  trudged  up  another  hill 
toward  it. 

A  gaunt,  scraggy  Cuban  met  us.  We  watched 
his  long  machete  with  fascinated  eyes,  while  the 
loquacious  "  Cuba  "  gave  him  a  detailed  account  of 
ourselves,  in  Spanish.  The  Cuban  welcomed  us 
to  his  home,  a  hut  of  palm  slabs  roofed  with  thatch 
and  floored  with  dirt.  By  the  sinister  rays  of  a 
small  oil  torch,  mother  and  children  ate  a  meal 
of  pottage.  The  children  cried  and  we  gave  them 
a  few  Spanish  coins.  Charity  is  cheap  in  a  country 
of  depreciated  silver. 

We  asked  for  water,  and  it  was  drawn  from  a 
pigskin.  We  asked  for  food,  and  were  told  that 
on  the  next  hill-top  dwelt  a  Great  Senor — one 
Govin,  owner  of  the  big  newspaper  in  Havana 
and  who  could  speak  English.  We  matched  coins 
to  see  who  would  venture  back  alone  to  the 
somewhat  distant  camp  with  a  bucket  of  water. 
Crebbin  lost  and  trundled  off  into  the  darkness, 
seeking  the  light  of  the  bonfire,  which  furnished 
our  only  clue  to  the  whereabouts  of  headquarters. 

Under  the  talkative  guidance  of  our  still  won- 
der-struck Cuban  friend,  we  found  the  other  house. 
The  owner  was  brought  out  of  bed  to  hear  our 
reason  for  being  there.  He  was  much  interested 
and  much  surprised.  He  was  glad  to  give  us 
food  but  he  refused  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Also  Senora, 
before  she  started  to  the  kitchen  to  get  us  guinea 

[  24  ] 


hen  and  yams,  insisted  that  the  strange  tale  be 
repeated  to  her. 

The  house  of  Govin  was  high  above  the  sur- 
rounding country,  but  there  was  nothing  to  see 
in  the  darkness  and  nothing  to  hear  except  the 
barking  of  dogs  and  the  echoing  sounds  from 
distant  woods. 

Across  the  front  of  the  low,  board  house  ran  a 
long  porch.  So  closely  framed  it  was  in  shrub- 
bery, and  so  dense  was  the  night  packed  around 
it,  that  there  was  almost  the  privacy  of  a  room. 
The  master,  in  his  half-attire  of  white  linen, 
kept  up  a  running  fire  of  conversation,  partly  in 
Spanish  through  and  to  the  interpreter,  and 
partly  in  English.  Highly  interested,  but,  for 
the  most  part,  quiet,  were  the  several  laborers 
who  shared  the  hospitality  of  the  porch.  Occa- 
sionally they  interjected  rapid  exclamations  and 
questions  in  Spanish.  It  was  hard  to  concen- 
trate upon  Seiior  Govin  and  our  conversation. 

The  curiousness  of  the  situation  had  unraveled 
my  nerves.  Never  before  had  it  seemed  possible 
that  a  pei'son  could  be  so  comparatively  close  to 
accustomed  things  and  yet  be  so  isolated.  The 
whole  scheme  was  like  a  bunch  of  dramatics 
grabbed  from  a  play  or  torn  from  a  copyrighted 
novel.  Persons  who  are  not  used  to  prowling 
about  the  back  yards  and  blind  alleys  of  the 
world  find  it  hard  to  adjust  themselves  to  strange 
society,  except  in  the  broad  light  of  day. 

Probably  the  two  at  the  roadside  camp  a  mile 
away,  and  the  one  struggling  along  the  hilly 
trail  with  a  bucketful  of  water,  felt  the  impres- 

[25] 


siveness  of  the  night  as  much,  or  more,  than  we 
who  sat  on  the  Govin  porch  and  talked  with  the 
Govin  family. 

It  was  a  romantic  situation  until  Govin,  inno- 
cently desiring  to  please,  cracked  the  grandeur 
of  the  night  and  pierced  the  helpless  heavens  by 
turning  on  the  rusty  voice  of  a  battered  ten-dollar 
phonograph. 

Finally,  we  ate  our  delayed  supper  at  our  own 
fireside.  We  were  not  yet  sleepy.  The  food  and 
warmth  cheered  us,  for  although  the  days  be  hot 
in  Cuba,  the  nights  are  cold.  Twenty-four  hours 
had  not  acclimated  us  to  a  change  of  fifty  degrees 
in  the  temperature  with  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Then  began  our  vigil. 

Thirty  miles  back  of  us  lay  Havana  with  its 
gay  opera,  its  bright  cafes,  and  its  dirty  hotels, 
swarming  with  tourists.  Thirty  miles  back  lay 
a  world's  city,  known  to  the  world,  close  to  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  familiar  to  the  world  as 
any  other  capital.  Thirty  miles  back  lay  our 
expectations,  our  fancies,  and  our  nerve.  Thirty 
miles  back  lay  the  things  we  knew.  This  was 
unknown  wilderness. 

Havana  to  Camp  Solitude  —  thirty  miles. 


[  26  ] 


CHAPTER  II 


u4s  Neptune' f    ri>'f^'-'i  ■> 


Ynur  ijtl«,  whirh  utawis 
.■I  ,„iU.I  ;«  mi///  rn,-)cs  urucalable. 
C?Troh«'Hnc. 


H  AN  D 

'h'  Ifrom 

ti.c    i  anis   Kit    supper, 

.>:^.v.nv»rfLvMStHf^mRi^^»t.   It 

W  ^^^;i^J^^eteR'^Mo  meet 
the  cold,  damp,  gray 
dawn  without  even  the  satisfaction 
of  awakening  from  sleep.  Our 
sewnd  morning  in  Cuba, — we 
stolidly  watched  the  dark  sky  turn 
into  tawny  streaks  and  gradually 
brighten  into  daylight.  We  ate  a  few  crackers 
and  gnawed  at  a  few  left-over  guinea  hen  bones, 
witii  tea,  brewed  in  a  tin  cup,  for  a  chaser.  We 
were  impatient  for  the  sun  to  drive  the  chill  out 
of  the  morning  and  out  of  our  bones. 

Now  we  faced  the  toughest  proposition  we  ever 
had  met;  so  we  dodged  it.  Easier  than  trying 
to  climb  the  bluffs  that  blocked  the  way  was  a 
ciroiitous  route  over  the  top  of  a  wind-blown, 
grass-covered  hill  in  somebody's  field.     We  broke 

[29] 


A   hill  Uk&^mniiiriil  .sidinvuy  of  ^rat, 
rmigh  Innest'Otte  ateps. " 


StE    I'AUE    3U. 


^ 


IM 


(.- i_---.-ffy  |ii_4-. 


ft 


CHAPTER   II 

Your  isle,  which  stands 
As  Neptune's,  ribbed  and  paled  in  with  rocks  unscalable. 

-  Cymbeline. 

ECOND-HAND 

breakfasts,  made  from 
the  ruins  of  supper, 
are  never  pleasant.  It 
is  less  pleasant  to  meet 
the  cold,  damp,  gray 
dawn  without  even  the  satisfaction 
of  awakening  from  sleep.  Our 
second  morning  in  Cuba, — we 
stolidly  watched  the  dark  sky  turn 
into  tawny  streaks  and  gradually 
brighten  into  daylight.  We  ate  a  few  crackers 
and  gnawed  at  a  few  left-over  guinea  hen  bones, 
with  tea,  brewed  in  a  tin  cup,  for  a  chaser.  We 
were  impatient  for  the  sun  to  drive  the  chill  out 
of  the  morning  and  out  of  our  bones. 

Now  we  faced  the  toughest  proposition  we  ever 
had  met;  so  we  dodged  it.  Easier  than  trying 
to  climb  the  bluffs  that  blocked  the  way  was  a 
circuitous  route  over  the  top  of  a  wind-blown, 
grass-covered  hill  in  somebody's  field.     We  broke 

[29] 


down  the  stone  fence,  drove  the  car  through,  and 
dashed  over  these  fields,  skipping  from  one  hill 
to  another.  At  last  we  brought  up  at  the  back 
door  of  the  house  of  Govin.  He  gave  us  advice 
and  bananas,  both  of  which  we  swallowed  as  fast 
as  we  could. 

Bananas  in  Cuba  are  fine ;  advice  is  poor.  We 
were  in  the  center  of  a  magnificent  panorama  of 
hills,  very  green,  and  fringed  with  palms  that 
reached  the  horizon  and  seemed  to  be  everlasting. 
Sefior  Govin  had  selected  his  home  well.  It  was 
a  beautiful  and  wonderful  country.  Also,  it  was 
the  third  of  January  and  the  now  scorching  sun 
had  warmed  us  to  the  continuance  of  our  fight 
against  the  rocks.  Courage  had  returned  and 
we  were  willing  to  accept  whatever  Cuba  had  to 
offer  in  the  way  of  highway  difficulties. 

What  happened  the  day  before  we  forgot. 
There  is  no  time  to  remember,  when  journeying 
as  we  journeyed.  The  new  difficulties  are  so 
rapidly'  encountered  that  each  experience  wipes 
out  the  recollection  of  the  previous  one.  With 
a  good-bye  from  Senor  and  a  smiling  adios  from 
Senora,  we  ran  down  a  long,  clay-covered  lane  to 
the  stone-floored  valley,  which  was  the  only  road 
there  was  to  follow.  That  day  we  took  the 
measure  of  our  ability  to  strike  the  first  two 
letters  off  the  word  impossible. 

We  discovered  a  new  kind  of  hill  —  a  hill  like 
a  natural  stain\^ay  of  great,  rough  limestone 
steps.  It  was  steep  enough  to  be  an  almost  im- 
possible climb,  even  had  it  been  smooth.  At  the 
left  was  a  (deep  gorge  on  whose  bottom  wound 

[30] 


t*it  rusty  rails  of  the  Havana  Central.  On  the 
right  was  a  plowed  field,  crossed  by  gullies  and 
covered  with  stones. 

Stones,  by  the  way,  do  not  affect  agriculture. 
The  soil  grows  its  crop  whether  cleared,  of  stones 
or  not.  They  hitch  a  squad  of  bulls  onto  a  plow 
and  literally  rip  up  the  face  of  the  earth.  Then  • 
they  plaii[ft-^s!^Aton^.t»'> After "^ ^K^l^'J'Je^JK^^come 
around  with  machetes  arid^'^tt^  ^'^:^\iOiV^V^^Next 
they  ioad-^ft,^ W  RMf-ton  bunches,  on  ox  calls  and 
haul  it  to  tlif  mill.  If  the  roads  be<x>me  worse, 
by  the  *if  the  immense  ruts,  they  put 

on  i 

=  ik 
into  the  earth  up  to  the  hub&  travel  in 
so  that  when  an  extreme! >  bad  place  is 
i  v  .^d,  the  oxen  from  several  carts  may  be 
liitchtd  onto  each  cart  in  succession.  It  takes 
from  four  to  twelve  oxen  to  pull  an  ordinaiy  cart. 
We  SUV  '  '  'larhill  from  all  an- 
gles, reconi: .„     ..    ...ay  track,  the  fields, 

and  the  hill  itself.  A  native,  who  happened 
along,  showed  us  how  to  cut  off  the  tail  of  a 

"  "  "  •*'    a  machete  so  that  he  becomes  a 

^  rhrae  are  sc(jrnions  under  most 

of  the  e  tire  lots  ot  rocks.     Centi- 

pedes a;  dingly  numerous.   We  climbed 

the  hill  .^^^vM  .wuiig  the  jutting  surfaces  of  the 
step-like  rocks  with  loose  stones  and,  then,  driving 
up  the  rough,  perilous  incline  by  sheer  power. 

Next  we  found  that  getting  down  the  opposite 
sidf  of  some  of  these  stepped  hills  was  like'v  to 

[33] 


^■^^ 


7''    'h'tinrncr  (>/'  tin  n.r  cent  is  th'niy-no-/if 

■'>/   'iiichi.s. 


the  rusty  rails  of  the  Havana  Central.  On  the 
right  was  a  plowed  field,  crossed  by  gullies  and 
covered  with  stones. 

Stones,  by  the  way,  do  not  affect  agriculture. 
The  soil  grows  its  crop  whether  cleared  of  stones 
or  not.  They  hitch  a  squad  of  bulls  onto  a  plow 
and  literally  rip  up  the  face  of  the  earth.  Then 
they  plant  sugar  cane.  After  a  while  they  come 
around  with  machetes  and  cut  it  down.  Next 
they  load  it,  in  half-ton  bunches,  on  ox  carts  and 
haul  it  to  the  rnill.  If  the  roads  become  worse, 
by  the  deepening  of  the  immense  ruts,  they  put 
on  higher  wheels  and  more  oxen. 

The  clearance  of  an  ox  cart  is  thirty-eight  to 
forty-eight  inches.  When  it  is  wet  the  carts  sink 
into  the  earth  up  to  the  hubs.  They  travel  in 
groups,  so  that  when  an  extremely  bad  place  is 
reached,  the  oxen  from  several  carts  may  be 
hitched  onto  each  cart  in  succession.  It  takes 
from  four  to  twelve  oxen  to  pull  an  ordinary  cart. 

We  surveyed  that  particular  hill  from  all  an- 
gles, reconnoitering  the  railway  track,  the  fields, 
and  the  hill  itself.  A  native,  who  happened 
along,  showed  us  how  to  cut  off"  the  tail  of  a 
scorpion  with  a  machete  so  that  he  becomes  a 
safe  companion.  There  are  scorpions  under  most 
of  the  rocks  and  there  are  lots  of  rocks.  Centi- 
pedes are  correspondingly  numerous.  We  climbed 
the  hill  itself,  filling  the  jutting  surfaces  of  the 
step-like  rocks  with  loose  stones  and,  then,  driving 
up  the  rough,  perilous  incline  by  sheer  power. 

Next  we  found  that  getting  down  the  opposite 
side  of  some  of  these  stepped  hills  was  likely  to 

[33] 


be  harder  than  getting  up.  They  are  so  steep 
that  the  car  slides  with  the  wheels  locked.  Once 
we  had  to  fasten  a  rope  to  the  rear  end  of  the  car, 
give  it  a  couple  of  turns  around  a  palm  tree  and 
let  the  car  go  bumping  down,  a  yard  at  a  time. 
At  one  place  we  were  lucky  enough  to  find  a 
couple  of  planks  which  had  been  used  to  bridge 
a  shallow  creek,  so  we  drove  down  the  hill  by 
using  the  planks  for  skids  from  one  step  to  the 
next. 

Our  first  ford  was  a  wide,  shallow  stream  with  a 
hard  rock  bed.  Through  the  clear  rippling  water 
of  this  first  river  the  car  shot  with  a  great  splurge 
and  spreading  of  white  spray.  We  had  dreaded 
the  rivers  which  had  been  pictured  to  us  as  im- 
passable. By  this  stream  was  a  country  grocery, 
in  front  of  which  lounged  a  rural  guard.  We 
asked  him  if  this  was  a  typical  river.  He  laughed 
and  started  to  tell  us  about  deep  torrents  that 
flowed  over  beds  of  stone,  between  wall-like  cliffs. 
We  changed  the  subject  and  dickered  with  him 
for  his  machete,  with  which  he  claimed  to  have 
killed  seven  Spaniards  during  the  last  war. 

Rural  guards  are  near  soldiers.  They  get  more 
money  than  United  States  regulars  and  wear 
better  clothes,  with  celluloid  collars  that  are  wiped 
clean  every  day.  They  carry  machetes  and 
revolvers.  They  will  sell  either  or  both.  They 
ride  good  ponies  and  go  to  country  dances. 
They  are  not  impressive. 

The  route  continued  an  interesting  one.  There 
are  more  kinds  of  trail  in  a  half  day's  journey  in 
Cuba  than  there  is  in  going  from  Hell's  Gate  to 

[  34  ] 


the  Golden  Gate.  A  comparatively  level  stretch 
of  red  dirt,  strewn  with  boulders,  suddenly  leaves 
off  in  a  tract  of  grass  where  the  route  is  marked 
only  by  stone  fences.  Where  the  red  soil  is  hard, 
the  travel  is  not  extremely  difficult,  the  principal 
obstruction  being  loose  stones,  which  must  be 
dodged.  The  same  dirt,  soaked  up  by  a  heavy 
rain,  becomes  a  bottomless  mire.  In  some  places 
there  is  nothing  to  follow  but  a  path  through 
high -growing  sugar  cane.  In  other  places,  un- 
less the  ground  is  seam -^  -  ^    *''   '    uts  by  the 

continuous    travel    of   K  s    in    wet 

weather,  the  only  thinjif  whk'h  s  a  traveled 

path  ^^ ■<:  tif  these 

M  rr-    ,  ■  ■  -,  i4i->    » 1   f  i'f»  j  y 

.^_^^^      ._       ,,  ,     of 

viie  tiq tfors  aiia  canned  meats.  "^^-<»(^iie  of  them 
it  is.fntBsibldiito  buy  oranges  and  bananas. 

During  those  scorching  days,  with  infrequent 
opportunities  to'  get  good  drinking  water,  we 
quenched  our  thirst  with  the  juice  of  many 
oranges.  They  are  little  ones,  but  cheap  and 
good.  We  bought  theni  by  the  dcxzen  and  threw 
them  loosely  into  the  folded  top,  back  of  the 
tonneau.  Bananas  we  ate  immediately  upon 
purchase.  The  tree-ripened  bananas  of  Cuba 
are  very  thin  skinned  and  delicious,  but  one  hour 
in  the  sun  spoils  them. 

Our  second  morning's  work,  to  relate,  would 
appear  to  be  the  tale  of  a  long  journey.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we  laboriously  worked  our  way 
over  the  rocks  for  a  few  miles  to  Jaruca,  where 
we   slopped   for   lunch.      Jaruca  was  our  first 

[  37  ] 


Thruitirh  the  dear  rippli/ng  water  of  this 
Jir.st  river  the  car  shot  xc'ifh  it  <rrr(it 
ftplurge. " 

:    1,1   :m.. 


the  Golden  Gate.  A  comparatively  level  stretch 
of  red  dirt,  strewn  with  boulders,  suddenly  leaves 
off  in  a  tract  of  grass  where  the  route  is  marked 
only  by  stone  fences.  Where  the  red  soil  is  hard, 
the  travel  is  not  extremely  difficult,  the  principal 
obstruction  being  loose  stones,  which  must  be 
dodged.  The  same  dirt,  soaked  up  by  a  heavy 
rain,  becomes  a  bottomless  mire.  In  some  places 
there  is  nothing  to  follow  but  a  path  through 
high-growing  sugar  cane.  In  other  places,  un- 
less the  ground  is  seamed  with  deep  ruts  by  the 
continuous  travel  of  heavy  ox  carts  in  wet 
weather,  the  only  thing  which  signifies  a  traveled 
path  will  be  the  country  stores.  Some  of  these 
are  in  board  houses.  Most  of  them  are  merely 
thatched  huts.  They  all  keep  a  little  supply  of 
vile  liquors  and  canned  meats.  At  some  of  them 
it  is  possible  to  buy  oranges  and  bananas. 

During  those  scorching  days,  with  infrequent 
opportunities  to  get  good  drinking  water,  we 
quenched  our  thirst  with  the  juice  of  many 
oranges.  They  are  little  ones,  but  cheap  and 
good.  We  bought  them  by  the  dozen  and  threw 
them  loosely  into  the  folded  top,  back  of  the 
tonneau.  Bananas  we  ate  immediately  upon 
purchase.  The  tree-ripened  bananas  of  Cuba 
are  very  thin  skinned  and  delicious,  but  one  hour 
in  the  sun  spoils  them. 

Our  second  morning's  work,  to  relate,  would 
appear  to  be  the  tale  of  a  long  journey.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we  laboriously  worked  our  way 
over  the  rocks  for  a  few  miles  to  Jaruca,  where 
we   stopped   for   lunch.      Jaruca   was   our   first 

[37] 


interior  village.  We  had  passed  no  towns  since 
leaving  Havana.  We  got  our  initial  experience 
of  a  typical  inland  meal  and  started  in  learning 
to  like  the  peculiar  style  of  cooking  which  is 
partly  Spanish,  partly  devilish,  and  ninety-five 
per  cent,  grease. 

The  main  thing  to  eat  is  a  pottage  of  beans 
and  meat,  fried  bananas  and  chicken  or  guinea, 
cooked  with  rice.  In  the  large  towns  or  in  places 
near  the  rivers  or  along  the  coast,  there  is  always 
fish.  The  bread  is  good  everywhere.  It  comes 
in  small  individual  loaves  and  is  so  greatly 
"  shortened  "  that  it  needs  no  butter,  which  is  a 
good  thing.  There  is  no  butter,  except  the 
canned  stuff  shipped  in  from  the  United  States. 
This  is  impossible.  It  looks  like  melted  vaseline. 
We  did  not  taste  it. 

At  Jaruca,  the  whole  town  joined  us  at 
luncheon.  Only  those  who  had  been  to  Havana 
had  seen  an  automobile  and  some  of  them  had 
never  heard  of  one.  They  were  all  timid.  In 
addition  to  which,  we  were  Americans.  The 
interior  Cubans  have  a  very  sensible  respect  for 
los  Americanos.  They  are  frank  in  their  inspec- 
tion of  a  stranger.  At  the  cafe,  where  we  sat  at 
a  corner  table  almost  on  the  sidewalk,  we  were 
surrounded  by  the  closely  packed  populace,  that 
carefully  examined  our  make-up,  from  toes  to 
turbans,  and  discussed  us  in  Spanish.  Those  who 
did  not  stick  by  us  during  the  meal  clustered 
about  the  car.  Hunger  is  a  preventive  of 
embarrassment.  Besides,  we  broke  even  with 
the  town  by  scaring  it  out  of  its  wits  with  an 

i  [38] 


exhibition  of  fast  and  fancy  driving  on  the  way 
to  the  edge  of  the  village. 

That  afternoon  we  made  good  use  of  our 
hatchet.  Many  times  there  would  be  several 
drops,  or  great  depressions,  in  the  rock  and  at 
each  place  we  would  have  to  cut  down  underbrush 
alongside  the  path  that  we  might  get  around  the 
hole.  Much  of  the  driving  was  in  deep  trenches 
where  the  travel  of  many  ox  carts  had  worn  the 
ruts  into  a  ditch.  For  hundreds  of  yards  we 
drove  between  these  close  walls  of  dirt,  where  the 
grass-covered  ground,  on  either  side,  rose  higher 
than  the  car.  This  ditch,  winding  past  rows  of 
huts  in  which  lived  sugar  plantation  laborers, 
debouched  now  and  then  into  open  territory, 
where  the  road  was  any  feasible  way  among  the 
shrubs,  rocks,  palms,  and  ruts. 

We  began  to  tire  under  the  hard  work  and 
were  glad  that  the  sun  was  sinking  rapidly 
toward  the  line  of  hills  back  of  us.  We  hoped 
to  reach  suitable  shelter  before  dark,  for  we 
needed  a  night  of  real  sleep.  We  struck  the  first 
river  of  consequence,  and  one  of  us  waded 
through  it  to  find  out  where  and  how  we  might 
cross.  It  was  not  difficult,  but  this  was  not  the 
region  of  rivers.  We  had  yet  to  cross  the  ones 
of  which  we  had  been  warned. 

Rivers  down  there  are  both  a  blessing  and  a 
curse.  They  stop  traffic  and  they  stop  thirst. 
There  are  but  few  wells.  We  struck  one  artesian 
well  which  supplied  water  for  many  square 
leagues.  A  league,  incidentally,  has  its  own 
meaning,  being  a  colloquial  measure  of  about  a 

[  39  1 


mile  and  a  half,  instead  of  the  usual  three  miles 
implied  by  the  marine  kind.  Most  of  the  drinking 
water  comes  from  the  rivers.  It  is  carried  away 
in  cans  or  water  jars.  The  former  are  principally 
five-gallon  kerosene  cans  saved  for  the  purpose. 
It  is  not  very  good  water  and,  unless  obtained  at 
a  store,  is  given  one  to  drink  from  a  porron. 

A  porron  is  a  Spanish-made  clay  bottle  with  an 
opening  at  the  top,  through  which  to  fill  it,  and 
a  small  nozzle  on  one  side,  through  which  to 
empty  it.  The  use  of  the  porron  is  the  only 
visible  evidence  of  cleanliness  on  the  island.  It 
is  against  all  etiquette  and  many  rules  to  touch 
the  spout  to  the  lips.  You  simply  aim  as  well  as 
you  can  and  hit  your  mouth  as  often  as  you  can. 

We  ended  our  journey  at  Benavides.  Bena- 
vides  is  a  dot  on  the  map.  In  reality,  it  is  a 
board  hut,  yclept  grocery.  We  had  fought  our 
way  thirty-four  miles.  Hungrily  impatient,  we 
waited  in  the  stone-flagged  main  room  of  the 
house  for  a  much-fried  supper.  We  ate  it  by  the 
glimmer  of  a  side  lamp.  Around  the  dirty  table 
at  which  we  sat,  collected  all  the  inhabitants  of 
the  house,  and  a  dozen  others  who  must  have 
lived  somewhere  but  who  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared in  a  mysteriously  dramatic  fashion. 

It  was  a  dismal  meal  and  a  poor  one  and  we 
were  cross.  We  were  glad  to  creep  onto  the  wire 
spring  cots  which  they  spread  for  us  in  a  partially 
enclosed  corner  of  the  hut.  That  night  we 
accrued  some  more  wisdom  about  touring  in  Cuba. 
We  undressed,  for  we  had  not  yet  learned  our 
part,  but  that  was  the  last  time  we  were  so  foolish, 

i  [  40  ] 


except  one  joyous  night  when  we  put  up  at  a 
regular  hotel  in  the  real  city  of  Santa  Clara. 

Each  of  us  had,  underneath,  a  wire  mattress, 
and,  on  top,  a  starched  sheet.  Cold  air  rushed 
through  the  meshes  of  the  woven  wire,  for  the 
night  was  a  chill  one,  while  the  starched  sheet 
felt  like  the  dank  sides  of  a  sepulchre.  Outside, 
innumerable  pigs  grunted  between  the  several 
acts  of  a  protracted  dog  fight,  and  the  chickens, 
which  roosted  in  the  house,  fluttered  from  one 
corner  of  the  room  to  another;  the  many  fleas 
were  still  bolder. 

There  is  an  intimacy  about  living  things  in 
Cuba  which  is  somewhat  appalling  to  a  man  who 
has  been  more  or  less  used  to  picking  his 
associates,  or,  at  least,  his  family.  Cats,  dogs, 
chickens,  and  pigs  are  welcome  in  the  household. 
The  children  sit  on  the  floor  and  quarrel  with 
each  other  and  with  the  dogs.  It  is  not  infrequent 
to  find  a  hut  which  has  its  household  snake. 
There  are  no  poisonous  snakes  on  the  Isle  de  Cuba, 
but  there  is  a  large  brand  which  looks  as  if  it 
would  like  to  be  poisonous  if  it  knew  how.  Just 
as  the  family  dog,  in  Illinois,  protects  the  house 
against  burglars,  so  the  family  snake  in  Santa 
Clara  Province  protects  the  house  against  rats — 
but  this  is  not  a  tale  of  grewsome  things. 

Each  successive  night  had  its  elements  of 
humor,  but  that  night  at  Benavides  we  had  not 
yet  arisen  to  the  greatness  of  mind  and  broadness 
of  character  which  permitted  us  to  enjoy  the 
humorous  phases  of  the  evening.  We  rolled 
around  on  our  cots  to  change  the  water  marks 

[41] 


which  the  wire  mattress  made  in  our  skin,  and 
tried  to  sleep  during  the  brief  intervals  between 
occasions  when  it  was  necessary  to  awake  and  pull 
the  sheets  back  onto  us.  If  all  of  the  other 
fellows  had  the  same  shrinkage  of  the  soul  which 
I  experienced  that  night  (and,  out  of  fairness  to 
myself,  I  think  they  did),  the  expedition  came 
awfully  close  to  needing  an  epitaph. 

Camp  Solitude  to  Benavides  —  thirty-four  miles. 


[42] 


^ij^^^l 


Stv, 


CHAPTER  III 

Th»  high  palmti-fr ,■!'«.  irlfh  hrtt^nrhtui  /airp, 
Out  of  the  I'  >hd  arxMe, 

wh<»  wor- 

n  are  not 

.    nhUoso- 

m.  For 

the  secowa  time  we 

learned  thai  the 

bright  sun  changes 

tlie  circumstances ; 

so  we  resolved  to  make  our  pluck 

^H,s\    ■'    ;  V    f^o  sunrise,  in- 

'  .f  ::>e  to  sunset.. 

We  were  mvelers  who  set  out  from 

»s,  over  a  fairly  good  yellow 
(.li^v  1  .  .  vNit.  ;.  I.*  ;.id  only  about  one-third  of 
the  nine  nuleb  to  Cuba's  show  town  at  the  head 
of  the  Yumuri  Valley.  We  gayly  bid  good 
morning  to  the  familiar  rocks. 

Crossing  them  was  not  as  hard  work  as  it  had 
been  the  first  day.  Places  which  had  puzzled 
and  almost  stumped  us,  we  crossed  with  Icarian 

[45] 


1 


llr  drove  iiiulcr  tlic  cvtrlu^thi^', pcduis  <iiul 
(tmon^bimldcrs  Ik ilf- hidden  hi  the  luwiinanl 


CHAPTER  III 

The  high  palnte-trees,  with  braunches  /aire. 
Out  of  the  lowly  rallies  did  arise. 
And  high  shoots  iip  their  heads  into  the  skyes. 

—  Spenser. 

EATHEN  who  wor- 
ship the  sun  are  not 
such  bad  philoso- 
phers, after  all.  For 
the  second  time  we 
learned  that  the 
bright  sun  changes 
the  circumstances ; 
so  we  resolved  to  make  our  pluck 
last  from  sunrise  to  sunrise,  in- 
stead of  from  sunrise  to  sunset. 
We  were  sanguine  travelers  who  set  out  from 
Benavides  to  Matanzas,  over  a  fairly  good  yellow 
clay  road  which  lasted  only  about  one-third  of 
the  nine  miles  to  Cuba's  show  town  at  the  head 
of  the  Yumuri  Valley.  We  gayly  bid  good 
morning  to  the  familiar  rocks. 

Crossing  them  was  not  as  hard  work  as  it  had 
been  the  first  day.  Places  which  had  puzzled 
and  almost  stumped  us,  we  crossed  with  Icarian 

[45] 


abandon.  Waldon,  at  the  steering  wheel,  had 
learned  new  tricks  of  acrobatic  motoring  and  all 
of  us  had  developed  unexpected  ingenuity  in 
makeshift  road  engineering.  We  did  not  waste 
any  time  in  rolling  away  the  wrong  rock  or  any 
other  rock  than  the  one  whose  removal  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  make  progress  possible. 
We  had  developed  a  system  of  team  work  and 
were  able  to  go  over  these  patches  of  rock  at  four 
or  five  miles  an  hour  where,  previously,  we  had 
been  able  to  make  only  two  or  three. 

Coming  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  new  road 
under  construction,  but  not  far  enough  under  to 
be  used  for  motoring,  we  encountered  the  con- 
tractor in  charge  of  the  grading.  He  was  an 
English-speaking  Cuban,  who  had  served  time  in 
the  United  States,  and  was  greatly  amazed  at  our 
approach.  The  only  way  we  could  convince  him 
that  we  had  driven  from  Havana  was  by  pointing 
out  that  we  could  not  have  come  from  any  other 
place.  He  seemed  to  like  us  and  so  gave  us  all 
the  information  he  had  concerning  the  impossi- 
bility of  going  any  farther  than  Matanzas. 

Every  first-class  city  in  Cuba  has  a  road.  It 
does  not  straggle  out  of  town.  It  darts  straight 
into  the  country  as  though  it  intended  to  cross  the 
island.  After  a  couple  of  miles  it  stops,  as  if  the 
money  had  run  out,  the  mayor  had  died,  or  some 
other  calamity  had  occasioned  its  sudden  ending. 
About  six  inches  past  the  edge  of  the  macadam 
there  is  likely  to  be  a  deep  morass,  a  bed  of  rocks 
that  look  as  though  they  had  been  thrown  there 
from  a  volcano,  or  a  great  confusion  of  bottomless 

[46] 


ruts.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  compromise 
between  the  good  and  the  bad.  It  is  either  one 
or  the  other.  We  struck  the  good  about  the  time 
we  came  within  sight  of  the  cathedral  towers  of 
Matanzas. 

It  was  quite  a  novelty  to  drive  fast  over  the 
smooth  macadam.  We  had  almost  forgotten  that 
we  ever  had  been  in  any  other  country  or  that 
we  ever  had  driven  an  automobile  fast  enough  to 
roll  up  dust.  Passing  a  beautiful  cemetery  with 
a  magnificent  wall  and  gateway,  the  interpreter 
explained  that  it  was  possible  for  a  Cuban  town 
to  maintain  a  beautiful  cemetery  because  it  leases 
the  lots  instead  of  selling  them,  and  the  income 
from  the  dead  is  fairly  permanent.  Edwin  made 
a  real  joke,  by  asking  what  they  did  with  the 
dead  beats  who  did  not  pay  the  rent. 

An  astonished  rural  guard,  on  the  outskirts  of 
Matanzas,  was  glad  to  drop  his  duties  and  accom- 
pany us  in  the  car  to  the  center  of  town.  He 
guided  us  to  the  Grand  Hotel  Paris.  That  word 
"  grand, "  as  applied  to  the  Cuban  hotels,  is  a  great 
deal  like  the  word  "best,"  as  applied  to  auto- 
mobiles in  American  advertising.  There  are  so 
many  Grand  Hotels  at  which  one  would  not  stop, 
except  out  of  necessity,  that  the  word  has  lost  its 
meaning.  This  one,  however,  was  fairly  deserving 
of  the  title  and  we  were  immediately  charmed 
with  the  clerk. 

Rogelio  Gaarken  was  his  name,  and  he  was  the 
first  Cuban  we  had  met  who  did  more  thinking 
than  jabbering.  "Cuba,"  our  original  inter- 
preter, was  to  go  back  to  Havana  from  here,  so 

[47] 


we  shanghaied  Rogelio,  much  to  the  disgust  of 
the  proprietor,  because  this  was  the  tourist  season 
and  Rogelio  was  needed  to  bring  down  Havana's 
overflow  of  sightseers  at  eleven  dollars  per, 
guide  to  the  Yumuri  Valley  and  dinner,  with  a 
thirty-cent  bottle  of  wine,  thrown  in. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  reached  Matanzas 
and  two  o'clock  when  we  left.  The  visiting  fever 
had  struck  us  and  we  loitered  away  the  hours 
seeing  some  of  the  most  convenient  sights  and 
adding  to  our  stingy  supplies.  We  put  in  some 
groceries  and  road  building  hardware,  including 
a  mattock. 

A  mattock  is  worth  two  dollars  in  Spanish 
money,  but  in  usefulness  it  is  worth  twelve  shovels, 
six  crowbars  and  three  hatchets.  The  pick  end 
is  the  best  mechanical  substitute  for  dynamite, 
while  the  wide  blade  on  the  other  side  can  be 
used  for  anything  from  chopping  out  shale  and 
rock-like  clay  to  peeling  sugar  cane  for  luncheon. 
We  also  purchased  as  much  gasoline  as  we  could 
carry,  for  Matanzas  is  the  only  place  in  Cuba 
where  it  is  refined.  Gasoline  is  an  uncertain 
quantity  down  there.  We  had  got  beyond  being 
critical  about  the  uncertainty  of  its  quality.  The 
smallest  town  has  kerosene  and  some  of  the 
country  stores  carry  benzine.  Gasoline  is  only 
found  in  the  larger  cities,  where  the  mayor  or 
some  other  dignitary  owns  a  gasoline  stove. 

The  government  engineer  of  the  Province  of 
Matanzas  gave  us  a  blue  print  showing  the  way 
we  should  go  toward  Santa  Clara.  After  he  had 
finished  his  elaborate  directions,  he  told  us  that 

1  [  48  1 


it  would  be  impossible  to  travel  that  road.  He 
said  that  we  might  go  a  little  way  but  would 
soon  Come  to  a  river  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  deep 
and  a  hundred  yards  wide.  Our  only  comment 
was: 

"Adios." 

Jagged  rocks  had  made  our  tires  suffer  and  we 
were  not  well  supplied  with  extras.  "Cuba," 
returning  to  Havana,  carried  word  to  the  garage 
there  to  ship  new  tires  to  us  at  Santa  Clara.  As 
we  followed  the  blue  print  out  of  town,  our  con- 
versation dwelt  on  the  river. 

Slowly  and  laboriously  picking  our  way  toward 
the  wide,  deep  gorge  in  which  the  dreaded  stream 
itself  was  hidden,  we  schemed  out  a  lot  of  things 
that  would  have  been  a  credit  to  Robinson  Crusoe 
and  other  noted  performers  of  bogus  engineering 
feats.  Our  favorite  plan  was  an  immense  raft  of 
palm  trunks,  it  being  agreed  that,  if  we  worked 
all  night,  we  could  probably  get  the  raft  ready 
to  float  by  morning. 

We  came  upon  the  river  unexpectedly,  our  first 
intimation  of  its  whereabouts  being  three  bare 
piers  sticking  above  the  bluff  and  telling  of  the 
destructive  march  of  Weyler  through  a  province 
that  once  had  boasted  a  few  century-old  bridges. 
Then  we  saw  the  river.  It  was  as  dry  as  the  top 
of  a  hill,  a  fair  sample  of  the  many  valleys  floored 
with  nothing  but  rocks  of  volcanic  roughness. 
It  was  marvelous  that  the  tires  were  not  literally 
torn  from  the  rims  and  that  the  twisted  wheels 
and  groaning  frame  did  not  weaken  under  the 
strenuous  task. 

[49] 


Having  crossed  so  much  rock,  we  argued  that 
surely  nothing  worse  could  be  ahead.  We  began 
to  gain  confidence  in  ourselves  and  to  lose  con- 
fidence in  Cuban  information.  When  the  govern- 
ment engineer  of  a  province  did  not  know  that 
a  river  a  few  miles  from  his  office  was  only  full 
of  water  in  the  wet  season,  we  concluded  that  the 
mere  prophecies  of  provincials  were  not  worth 
worrying  about. 

Ambling  along  until  nightfall,  we  often  crossed 
fields  where  it  was  easier  to  take  a  roundabout 
way  than  to  try  to  follow  the  trail.  Slowly  we 
drove  under  the  everlasting  palms  and  among  the 
boulders  half-hidden  in  the  luxuriant  grass.  The 
war  had  bled  fast  and  furiously  around  here. 
Stone  houses  of  the  Spanish  period  all  were  gone 
or  stood  in  ruins,  dim  pages  in  the  history  of 
minor  battles  which  never  will  be  written.  The 
country  had  blossomed  again.  The  red  flambollan, 
the  stately  sugar  cane,  and  the  fast-growing 
bananas  had  wiped  the  stain  away,  but  thatch- 
roofed  huts  replaced  the  old  Spanish  houses  which 
once  reared  picturesquely  in  wild  regions. 

For  miles  the  road  would  be  marked  by  waver- 
ing stone  fences,  but  there  was  nothing  between 
these  fences  to  show  that  it  had  been  used  since 
the  war  or  that  it  ever  had  been  anything  else 
than  the  rock-strewn  virgin  soil.  Sometimes  the 
grass  grew  as  high  as  the  car.  Sometimes  the 
fences  would  be  long  lines  of  palms,  framing  a 
magnificent  vista  of  miles  upon  miles  that  ended 
in  the  blue,  blue  hills  at  the  horizon.  Had  there 
been  a  road  between  these  fences  or  between  these 

[  50  ] 


palms,  Mercury  himself  could  have  asked  no  better 
speedway. 

As  the  country  became  flatter,  sugar  planta- 
tions became  larger  and  more  frequent.  Now 
and  then  we  would  strike  the  railway,  at  a  sugar 
mill  siding  or  where  it  passed  through  some 
village.  We  scared  the  whole  town  of  Limonar 
out  of  the  lethargy  into  which  it  had  sunk  since 
the  war.  Isolated  and  without  excitement  save 
local  brawls,  dances  and  cock  fights,  the  sudden 
bursting  into  its  midst  of  a  motor  car,  manned 
by  Americans,  was  like  the  bursting  of  the  first 
bomb  of  another  war.  Having  stopped  to  buy 
oranges,  the  inhabitants — men,  women,  debu- 
tantes in  sheath  gowns  of  the  original  pattern,  and 
little  children — chased  us  as  far  as  they  could 
hold  the  pace.  This  was  easy  until  we  found  a 
fairly  level  field  and  drove  out  into  the  loneliness 
of  vast  country  where  there  is  nothing  except  the 
rapid  growth  of  wild  plants  and  grasses. 

Recklessly  we  drove  through  deep  grass,  among 
the  burned  houses  and  ruined  fences,  always 
reminding  us  of  the  fact  that  we  were  probably 
the  first  to  follow  across  these  provinces  in  wake 
of  the  devastating  armies  of  a  decade  past.  Hid- 
den in  the  grass  were  ruts  that  had  been  cut  by 
heavily  loaded  ox  carts  years  before  and  which 
had  hardened  almost  like  rock. 

Eventually  we  arrived  at  Tosca,  a  handful  of 
huts  set  in  a  bleak  region  of  grass,  where  there 
were  not  even  palm  trees  to  hide  poverty  and 
desolation.  We  had  ceased  to  ask  if  we  might 
stay.     We  simply  announced  ourselves  and  took 

[51  ] 


what  we  could  get.  Here,  it  was  a  supper  of  our 
own  canned  stuff,  purchased  at  Matanzas ;  eggs 
which  we  bought  of  one  of  the  farmers  at  a  dollar 
a  dozen,  and  bread  furnished  by  the  hospitable 
family  which  had  nothing  else  to  offer,  except  the 
use  of  their  living  room.  We  ate  by  candlelight, 
under  the  curious  gaze  of  astounded  farmers, 
timid  women,  and  the  frightened  glances  of  little 
babies,  who  sat  on  the  floor  and  sucked  sugar 
cane. 

Every  time  we  gathered,  in  the  evening, 
around  some  Cuban  farm-house  table,  we  were 
impressed  by  the  fact  that  our  trip  had  two  dis- 
tinct parts  and  was,  in  reality,  two  distinct 
journeys.  One  was  a  journey  by  day,  over  a 
hard  and  trying  land.  The  other  was  a  journey 
by  night,  into  many  peculiar  places.  By  day, 
we  worked  and  studied  the  country.  At  night, 
we  loitered  and  studied  the  people.  Each  day 
was  complete  in  itself.  We  never  paid  attention 
to  what  had  passed  or  to  what  might  come. 
Perhaps,  because  we  were  tired,  generally,  it  was 
easier  than  thinking,  speculating,  or  planning, 
just  to  sit  among  the  Cubans  and  be  interested 
in  them.     Little  things  were  mutually  amusing. 

The  fact  that  we  brewed  tea  in  huge  cups  and 
drank  it  in  huge,  hot  gulps  amused  the  Cubans. 
Courteously  and  gladly,  they  heated  water  and, 
then,  laughed  to  see  us  pour  it  on  the  little  green 
leaves.  On  the  other  hand,  we  were  amused  by 
the  universal  presence  of  sewing  machines.  The 
smaller  and  meaner  the  hut,  the  more  promi- 
nently loomed  the  sewing  machine.     The  real 

[52] 


Cuban  lives  in  almost  squalor ;  dresses  in  almost 
rags.  The  squalor  is  accented  by  the  sewing 
machine.  Ragged  pants  are  sewed  together  and 
patched,  likewise. 

The  Cuban  has  a  few  passions.  He  gratifies 
these  and  does  not  give  a  rap  for  anything  else. 
The  sewing  machine  is  evidently  one  of  the 
national  passions  —  carefully  cultivated  by  the 
enterprising  foreign  department  of  the  sewing 
machine  trust.  But  the  greatest  of  Cuban  pas- 
sions is  gambling.  The  lid  is  on  bull-fighting 
and  cock-fighting  in  Cuba.  It  is  a  leaky  lid. 
When  Saturday  night  comes,  the  ragged  Cuban 
goes  to  a  dirty  corner  in  his  dirty  hut,  raises  a 
dirty  board  and  brings  out  a  dirty  bag,  in  which 
are  many  dirty  Spanish  dollars.  He  places  the 
bag  carefully  under  one  arm  and  under  the 
other,  still  more  carefully,  he  places  his  favorite 
little  black  rooster  and  starts  off  for  the  nearest 
cock  pit.     Money  is  merely  a  medium  of  wager. 

Our  daily  march  was  improving.  We  had 
gone  forty-four  miles. 

That  evening  we  spent  rearranging  our  supplies 
and  tools  in  the  tousled  tonneau.  Whatever  we 
had  that  was  not  necessary  we  threw  away,  and 
placed  our  road  implements  where  they  would 
rattle  the  least,  knock  our  shins  the  least,  and  yet 
be  ready  for  instant  use.  Then  we  raised  the 
top  and  entertained  each  other  with  merry  persi- 
flage, until  we  were  sleepy  enough  to  lay  down 
in  our  clothes  on  benches  within  the  hut  and 
forget  it. 

Sleep  was  our  greatest  need.  Shivering  through 

[53  ] 


long  wakeful  hours  of  another  night  spent  in  our 
clothes,  on  hard  boards,  attacked  by  fleas,  and 
awakened  by  the  clamor  of  yawling  dogs  and 
puling  chickens,  we  found  a  tonic  in  Rogelio, 
whom  we  called  "  Roe. "  He  was  an  excellent  type 
of  that  dark-hued,wiry  Cuban,  whose  well-chiseled 
features  and  wonderful  black  eyes  are  far  superior 
to  the  alleged  beauty  of  the  Cuban  woman.  Some 
of  the  mahogany-tinted  country  women  have  such 
eyes,  but  never  the  senorita  of  the  town.  The 
latter  is,  in  most  cases,  simply  a  human  synonym 
for  talcum  powder.  I  would  like  to  corner  the 
powder  market  in  Cuba. 

Rogelio  was  quaint,  as  well  as  handsome. 
Some  ancestor  had  been  a  humorist  and  a  philos- 
opher. Rogelio  became  one  of  us.  He  made  it 
easier  for  us  to  look  up  at  the  dark,  thatched  roof 
and  to  fill  our  sleepless  moments  with  laughter 
instead  of  commiseration. 

Benavides  to  Tosca  —  forty-four  miles. 


[54  ] 


,^»aM  m<> 


w  Wirt  ^u 

/  (I'li  mUii  gloria  ri'-rs. 
—  Prop*-'-' lu> 


m. 


A 


Wiien  the 


except  those 
^Atr    t>y   ox  carts, 
,4it*    merely    imita- 
tions.    The  country 
through    which   we 
were  passing  soaks 
water  like  a  sponge 
in   tlie  wet   season. 
It  dries  quickly, 
red  soil  is  soft,  the 
heavily-laden   carts 
>\d  cut  gashes  three 
or  four  feet  dt*t-}>  in  tiie  iace  of  the  earth.     These 
p^v..]i  .!  ;..t.  .,  :.     • 'd  ciT>ss  one  ai^otJiier.     There 
is  .  *'^^\  ^i^^.^l^ovey  them ;   that 

is  to  a  the  wheels  ^ri  me  high  spots. 

Somel.  c  iUgh  spot  may  be  wide;    some- 

times :;,......  as  the  wheel;  sometimes  it  may  be 

the  sloping  side  of  a  gully.  On  these  iiits  and 
on  the  rocks  we  tore  tires  off  the  wheels  at  two 
miles  an  hour.  ,  . 

From  Tosca  to  Macagua  is  sixty  miles  of  ruts. 

[  57  ] 


m.. 


"On  these  ruts  ivc  (on-    I'lrc-s   r,jj'  fhc  7clirc/s 
at  two  miha  iiwhiyxr.  " 


i 


11 


[ ' 

i 

! 

1       '  [X 

^^^^B 

"  We  enjoyed  the  nuf  crptr'/rm-i'  ^jf/St^^L^^^ 

^^^H| 

'^HI^H^H 

^^^^^^H 

H^^H 

■ 

'^^^^^^^H 

H 

^s*}^iw^vg^m^m 

CHAPTER  IV 

Magnum  iter  adscendo  ;  sed  dat  mihi  gloria  vires. 

—  Propertius. 


LL  ruts,  except  those 
made  by  ox  carts, 
are  merely  imita- 
tions. The  country 
through  which  we 
were  passing  soaks 
water  like  a  sponge 
in  the  wet  season. 
It  dries  quickly. 
When  the  red  soil  is  soft,  the 
immense,  heavily-laden  carts 
sink  into  and  cut  gashes  three 
or  four  feet  deep  in  the  face  of  the  earth.  These 
parallel,  intersect,  and  cross  one  another.  There 
is  only  one  way  to  drive  a  car  over  them ;  that 
is  to  always  keep  the  wheels  on  the  high  spots. 
Sometimes  the  high  spot  may  be  wide;  some- 
times narrow  as  the  wheel ;  sometimes  it  may  be 
the  sloping  side  of  a  gully.  On  these  ruts  and 
on  the  rocks  we  tore  tires  off  the  wheels  at  two 
miles  an  hour. 

From  Tosca  to  Macagua  is  sixty  miles  of  ruts. 

[57] 


As  we  left  the  region  where  the  road  is  over  bare 
rock,  we  began  to  work  into  a  region  where  the 
ruts  alternate  with  mud.  For  a  short  distance 
the  ground  had  been  untraversed  for  a  long  time, 
and  was  hard  and  fairly  smooth.  We  enjoyed 
the  rare  experience  of  "  beating  it,"  which  down 
there  meant  eighteen  to  twenty  miles  an  hour. 
This  respite  from  the  usual  difficulties  was  brief, 
for  the  road  finally  became  merely  an  opening 
between  sugar  fields. 

The  cane,  sweeping  the  car  on  either  side,  rose 
far  above  our  heads  and  for  many  miles  it  was 
never  possible  to  see  in  front  of  us  farther  than  a 
few  hundred  yards.  Leaving  the  sugar  cane  for 
short  drives  over  open  ground,  we  noticed  that 
this  must  have  been  a  particularly  patriotic  sec- 
tion during  the  fighting  with  Spain.  Most  of  the 
scattered  houses  were  of  stone  or  boards,  calci- 
mined  white,  light  blue,  or  yellow,  and  nearly 
each  one  bore  the  roughly  painted  sign ;  "  Viva 
Cuba  Libre." 

Lunch  was  eaten  in  a  street  cafe  at  Colon, 
and  while  there  we  became  acquainted  with 
the  four-hundred  of  a  typical  inland  city. 
Politicians  in  such  localities  bear  reputable 
names  socially  and  lead  the  village  society.  We 
needed  gasoline  and  were  told  that  there  was  a 
private  supply  owned  by  a  man  who  was  then  at 
the  home  of  the  mayor,  on  the  outskirts,  where 
the  beaux  and  belles  of  Colon  had  been  invited 
to  a  dinner  party  by  his  honor.  We  were  asked 
to  join  the  festivities,  but  excused  ourselves  and 
took  the  oil  monopolist  back  to  the  town  that 

I  [  58  ] 


he  might  sell  us  one  of  his  precious  ten-gallon 
cans  of  gasoline. 

The  people  of  the  farms  that  we  had  met  had 
been  picturesque  and  interesting.  The  social 
leaders  of  this  small  city  were  very  ordinary  tjrpes 
in  their  commonplace  imitation  of  American 
dressing.  They  are  uninteresting  anomalies, 
striving  for  a  conventionality  of  which  they 
know  little.  They  have  a  color  line  which  does 
not  exist  in  the  country.  Out  among  the  hills, 
the  only  line  of  demarkation  is  the  age  limit 
above  which  it  is  considered  proper  and  right  that 
little  boys  and  little  girls  should  wear  clothes. 

We  were  now  running  comparatively  near  the 
railway  and  small  stations  were  frequent.  To 
most  of  these,  mahogany  was  being  brought  up 
from  the  forests  of  the  south,  one  immense  log 
at  a  time  being  hauled  on  a  cart  drawn  by  from 
four  to  a  dozen  oxen.  The  progress  is  about  two 
miles  an  hour  when  the  road  is  not  muddy. 

More  ruts,  open  fields  covered  with  loose  rocks, 
mud  holes  and,  then,  Macagua,  a  town  to  remem- 
ber. It  boasted  an  hotel,  which  was  club,  general 
store,  saloon  and  salon  to  the  village  and  sur- 
rounding country.  We  had  beds  for  the  first 
time  in  Cuba,  but  our  real  experience  that  even- 
ing was  not  in  them.  Being  Sunday,  it  was  a 
day  of  celebration. 

There  had  been  a  baseball  game  in  which  the 
Pinks  beat  the  Blues.  Cuba  is  baseball  crazy. 
Each  country  team  has  dainty  cotton-flannel 
suits,  which  they  put  on  after  the  game  for  the 
purpose  of  parading  around  the  town.     There 

[59] 


was  a  balloon  ascension  at  dusk — a  hot-air  balloon 
of  red,  white,  and  blue  paper  going  up  in  flames. 
The  star  number  on  the  program  was  the  evening 
dance.  The  orchestra,  composed  of  the  blackest 
of  Cuban  negroes,  came  early  with  its  kettle 
drums,  cornet,  clarinet,  gourd  and  trombone. 
The  tunes  were  of  local  invention.  A  file  drawn 
across  the  teeth  gives  the  same  sensation  as  the 
rasping  noise  they  made. 

Local  society  took  possession  of  the  hotel  floor. 
They  danced  a  slow,  sleepy,  never-ceasing,  never- 
changing  two-step.  The  black  rabble  stood  out- 
side, watching  the  scene  through  open  doors  and 
windows.  When  each  dance  was  done,  the  couples 
marched  around  in  an  endless  parade.  Then  the 
young  swains  exchanged  partners  or  managed  to 
select  the  maidens  of  their  respective  hearts' 
desire.  If  a  young  man  wanted  a  certain  girl,  he 
grabbed  her  partner  by  the  unengaged  arm,  made 
a  few  farcical  bows,  which  the  grabbed  party 
would  duplicate  and  then  withdraw,  it  being  con- 
sidered highly  improper  to  protest  the  transfer. 
By  the  way  of  an  extra  for  the  edification  of  the 
entire  party,  the  American  embassy  rang  in  a 
cake  walk. 

Our  beds  were  on  the  balcony  which  surrounded 
the  second  floor  of  the  hotel  building.  We  slept 
as  men  will  who  have  not  slept  in  four  days. 

Tosca  to  Macagua  —  sixty  miles. 


[60] 


.dtt  ^At  3*8  for  HOW  imgan 

Night  with  Aw  avlUm  teiitfui  to  doHhle-tfinde  the  dM&rf. 

-Milt  or 


13 


f>Uv 


^' 


^ 

^^^v 


\  cj*y    monot- 

hunian  nature 

Us  disappointing. 

Interior  Cubans  are 

^^     fjuileless,  frank,  generous, 

meek,  dirty,  willing,  and 

altogether    submissive    and 

obedient.     In    other   words, 

they  are  children.     But  a  com- 

iD unity  like  Macagua  has  its 

Nmr-Hushers,  it?  liars,  and  its 

sjiiue   as   London,  New  York,  and 

There  had  ht;en  at  the  danee  a  man 

■.e,  distance  eastward,  knew 

ijiitry  ami,  on  returnmg  to  his 

Miig,  would  be  glad  to  show  us 

tlu  di Ihcultly  followed  trail.    We  took  him  along. 

It  was  verj^  early  in  the  morning  and  the  sun 

was  straight  ahead,  shining  into  our  eyes  over 

^hf   low  mist  which  had  not  yet  l>een  dispelled. 

an  right  from  town  into  a  great  fen,  where 

[63] 


farn 


Wtf^  thmiaaiul,  and,  scc^n^ 

\ihi//l    fM)tuls    riiinjc    Irtj   hg^w 


J'h,    c.r 


looked  1 1 ' 
...    „/.>,,,, 


CHAPTER  V 

*     *     *    for  now  began 
Night  with  her  sullen  wings  to  double-shade  the  desert. 

—  Milton. 

I  >  Y  its  very  monot- 
-fj  )  ony,  human  nature 
is  disappointing. 
Interior  Cubans  are 
guileless,  frank,  generous, 
meek,  dirty,  willing,  and 
altogether  submissive  and 
obedient.  In  other  words, 
[^  they  are  children.  But  a  com- 
munity like  Macagua  has  its 
four-flushers,  its  liars,  and  its 
cheats,  the  same  as  London,  New  York,  and 
Oshkosh.  There  had  been  at  the  dance  a  man 
who  said  he  lived  some  distance  eastward,  knew 
every  foot  of  the  country  and,  on  returning  to  his 
farm  in  the  morning,  would  be  glad  to  show  us 
the  difficultly  followed  trail.  We  took  him  along. 
It  was  very  early  in  the  morning  and  the  sun 
was  straight  ahead,  shining  into  our  eyes  over 
the  low  mist  which  had  not  yet  been  dispelled. 
We  ran  right  from  town  into  a  great  fen,  where 

[63] 


only  a  few  stunted  palm  trees  rose  above  the  vast 
ocean  of  rank  guinea  grass,,  covering  invisible 
mires.  We  could  not  see  the  wet  places  until 
we  ran  into  them.  Trying  to  get  around  a  deep 
mud  hole,  we  bumped  into  a  palm  tree  and  had 
to  cut  it  down. 

Chopping  a  palm  tree  is  like  chopping  steel 
tubing.  A  hundred  glancing  blows  of  machete, 
mattock  and  axe  leave  a  few  scratches  on  the 
trunk  of  the  tree.  It  was  while  we  were  hack- 
ing away  at  this  palm  that  our  volunteer  guide 
informed  us  that  we  were  lost.  There  is  no 
definite  road  through  the  tall  grass  which  hides 
the  treacherous  swamps.  The  sun  is  the  best 
guide.  We  began  to  wish  for  the  rocks  that  we 
had  struggled  over,  back  in  Matanzas  Province. 
Our  displeasure  we  vented  on  the  unfortunate 
fraud  who  had  invented  his  guide  story  to  obtain 
a  ride  in  the  wonderful  automobile  from  the 
United  States.  We  were  even  disappointed  that 
he  did  not  mind  being  left  anywhere  to  walk 
back.  Provincial  Cubans  do  not  travel  far  from 
home,  ever,  but  they  will  wander  in  any  direction 
with  you  and  worry  not  at  all  about  going  back. 
The  lack  of  palatable  food  is  about  the  same  in 
one  place  as  another,  and  the  hut  of  one  Cuban 
is  about  as  homelike  as  that  of  another,  so  they 
are  seemingly  indifferent  to  time  or  place. 

Sighting  the  railway,  we  decided  to  quit  trying 
to  follow  the  hidden  trail  through  the  swamp  and 
take  to  the  right-of-way.  Imagine  running  along 
the  worst  railway  roadbed  of  which  you  can  think, 
just  inside  the  fence,  regardless  of  grades,  banks, 

[  64  ] 


or  ravines.  Imagine  such  a  stretch  of  road 
covered  thick  and  deep  with  grass.  For  several 
leagues  this  is  what  we  had,  until  we  struck  a 
high  plateau  where  there  was  no  habitation  and 
no  road — only  palm  trees,  by  the  thousands,  and, 
scattered  among  them,  small  ponds  made  by 
heavy  rainfall. 

The  grass  was  short.  The  sun  scorched  and 
there  was  nothing  to  drink.  We  had  forgotten 
to  lay  in  our  usual  supply  of  oranges.  We 
wandered  about,  guided  by  the  sun  and  trying  to 
keep  to  the  correct  general  direction.  Palm  trees 
are  not  close  together  like  the  trees  of  a  northern 
forest,  but  at  a  certain  distance  their  white  trunks 
bank  into  a  solid  wall.  Always,  it  seemed,  we 
were  in  the  middle  of  a  large,  white-paled  arena. 
Here,  also,  Rogelio  pointed  out  to  us  the  flat- 
topped  guao  tree,  which  is  dreaded  by  the  natives 
because  of  the  popular  belief  that  to  rest  in  its 
shadow  means  sleep  and  death. 

After  awhile  we  hit  a  sandy  trail  which  had 
been  the  bed  of  some  long  since  dried-out  river. 
It  was  seamed  in  a  thousand  directions  by  the 
draining  off  of  recent  rains.  We  welcomed  the 
approach  of  the  first  person  we  had  met  since 
morning,  a  horse-back  rider  who  appeared  to  be 
honestly  familiar  with  the  country  and  who  led  us, 
once  more,  to  the  trail  we  had  lost.  We  encount- 
ered more  tall  grass.  To  a  spectator,  the  car  must 
have  looked  like  some  big,  black  beast,  wallowing 
along  in  boundless  marsh. 

A  deep  blue  ridge  in  the  east  betokened  moun- 
tains.    We  were  in  a  valley.     That  afternoon 

[65] 


we  forded  nine  shallow  rivers  and  rushed  in- 
numerable short  steep  climbs  up  their  farther 
banks.  Some  of  these  grades  seemed  to  stand 
the  car  on  end,  both  going  down  and  coming  up. 
At  many  of  them  we  were  forced  to  stop  and  cut 
out  notches  in  the  hard  clay  or  solid  rock,  to  clear 
the  fly  wheel,  when  the  car  should  go  up  over  the 
sharp  crown  of  the  hill. 

At  a  small,  isolated  grocery  store,  where  we 
stopped  for  oranges,  we  learned  that  we  had 
missed  San  Domingo,  our  immediate  objective 
point,  by  many  miles,  and  so  struck  directly  east- 
ward for  Esperanza.  It  was  discouraging  infor- 
mation, for  we  had  not  eaten  at  all  that  day. 
We  were  fighting  hard  and  our  mettle  was 
improving.  We  had  long  since  dropped  the 
habit  of  anxiety  that  had  shadowed  our  efforts  on 
the  first  two  days. 

We  kept  on  going  lower  and  lower  into  the 
valley.  The  valley  became  muddier  and  mud- 
dier. We  crossed  quagmires  by  the  score,  some 
of  them  by  following  a  carefully  planned  route 
over  solid  spots.  Others  we  crossed  by  mak- 
ing a  rough  causeway  of  brush  and  any  broken 
trees  and  limbs  which  we  could  find.  Still 
others,  whose  bottoms,  by  probing  with  a  stick, 
we  found  to  be  made  of  hard  rock,  we  took  by 
"shooting"  —  which  means  driving  full  tilt 
straight  through  the  mud  and  water.  "Shoot- 
ing" became  a  common  pastime  with  us  and 
a  by-word.  At  every  mire  one  of  us  would 
run  ahead  of  the  car,  size  it  up  or  investigate, 
and  yell  back  the  directions  to  "shoot  her"  or 

I  [66] 


to  ^et  out  and  help  build  a  floating  bridge  of 
brush. 

We  had  crossed  several  rivers  that  would  have ' 
been  ten  to  fifteen  feet  deep  with  water  during 
the  rainy  season.  Even  now  some  of  them  had 
treacherous  bottoms  of  irregularly  piled  stone. 
Before  fording,  it  was  necessaiy  for  one  of  us  to 
wade  through  to  map  out  a  route  ov^j:  the  high 

piuc^jktewJ^v^T^Wfmm¥^%)|m 

thi^('^uglt\fi'o  water.     We  did  not  stop  for  a  meal 
nt   K<r   rHH'-H,  because  the  daylight  was  going 
•I  Santa  Clara  faster  than  we  were  going 
loviaidj*  it  and  we  wi  *  the  night 

ther<?.     We  >'^   ••   '  .lai  dark,  but 

to-night  it  -  ^e  would  have  to 

do  so  ttmgiy  uninhabited  tract 

of 

-  .  .^..  ..  >uds  in  the  west,  reflecting  the 
crimson  glory  of  the  sun's  farewell  glance,  spread 
a  woven  gold  mantilla  on  the  naked  shoulders  of 
.1  ^'    '    '  »  r  ' ',  and  the  motor  car  sank, 

i'  ,!ud  as  if,  also,  its  day  was 

d«  ated   before  we  went  to  work. 

\^t*vilM«^»)fefe^l^iOHll5av5|^^  the 

biKJMiNw*r*»H^-^«^«->**  ^^<^>}^»«9(^l^nd  shelter. 
We^kawff^^  I'^'^SiimUse  the  car 

frow> "  h«W*.  -^V^lkd^a^'omplished 

m  .s,   y^^^V^'^^hS^tJi^W.      The 

rta:   „.^ .i„-K:ened  into  livid  fires  which 

flickered  and  went  out.     There  was  no  twilight. 

In  the  gloom  of  ominous  night,  broken  only  by 

* '       lender  rays  from  an  oil  lamp,  we  took  a  new 

11  our  nerve  and  began  another  round  of 

[69] 


The  viilh\ij  Inciiiiic  iniuiciwr.  (itul  imuldicr/ 

SKt    I'ACJE    tit). 


riw  ftitii' 

"       ■ ' 

iroM  irui 

■,7  11, 

,/ 

./■;,    .      .V 

do   the-  ; 

to  get  out  and  help  build  a  floating  bridge  of 
brush. 

We  had  crossed  several  rivers  that  would  have 
been  ten  to  fifteen  feet  deep  with  water  during 
the  rainy  season.  Even  now  some  of  them  had 
treacherous  bottoms  of  irregularly  piled  stone. 
Before  fording,  it  was  necessary  for  one  of  us  to 
wade  through  to  map  out  a  route  over  the  high 
places  along  which  the  car  might  be  safely  driven 
through  the  water.  We  did  not  stop  for  a  meal 
at  Esperanza,  because  the  daylight  was  going 
away  from  Santa  Clara  faster  than  we  were  going 
towards  it  and  we  wished  to  spend  the  night 
there.  We  had  not  yet  driven  after  dark,  but 
to-night  it  seemed  that  either  we  would  have  to 
do  so  or  camp  in  a  seemingly  uninhabited  tract 
of  marshy  land. 

The  low  clouds  in  the  west,  reflecting  the 
crimson  glory  of  the  sun's  farewell  glance,  spread 
a  woven  gold  mantilla  on  the  naked  shoulders  of 
a  grim,  forbidding  world,  and  the  motor  car  sank, 
helpless,  into  the  deep  mud  as  if,  also,  its  day  was 
done.  We  hesitated  before  we  went  to  work. 
We  knew  that,  somewhere,  away  off*  behind  the 
big,  dark  hills,  was  Santa  Clara,  food,  and  shelter. 
We  knew  that,  somehow,  we  would  raise  the  car 
from  the  enveloping  mire.  We  had  accomplished 
more  difficult  tasks,  yet  we  hesitated.  The 
flaming  clouds  darkened  into  livid  fires  which 
flickered  and  went  out.  There  was  no  twilight. 
In  the  gloom  of  ominous  night,  broken  only  by 
the  slender  rays  from  an  oil  lamp,  we  took  a  new 
reef  in  our  nerve  and  began  another  round  of 

[69] 


the  desperate,  elemental  fight  against  the  mud. 
One  of  us  searched  for  long  poles  to  use  as  pries. 
Another  vainly  sought  to  make  a  solid  foundation 
for  the  jack  underneath  the  car.  The  others 
collected  rocks.  We  had  previously  cursed  these 
ever-present  boulders,  which  we  now  welcomed. 
All  worn  by  the  day's  hard  work  and  with  a  big 
job  before  us,  we  stopped,  enchanted,  as  from  the 
faraway  hills  came  the  clear,  melodious  "ah, 
ohs  !  "  of  the  voceo  de  ganado — the  silver  tones 
of  the  native  Cuban,  calling  home  his  cattle. 

"  Oiga,  chico !  "  yelled  the  sanguine  Rogelio. 

"  Que  hay !  "  came  the  answering  call. 

Soon  white-trousered,  bare-footed,  dark,  wiry 
fellows  surrounded  the  strange  vehicle  of  los 
Americanos.  All  the  wealth  of  words  in  the 
Spanish  tongue  seemed  insufficient  to  express 
their  wonderment.  Like  a  small  army,  guided 
and  bullied  by  their  natural  leader,  they  carried 
stones,  swung  on  the  long  poles,  yelled  and  fussed 
until,  one  after  another,  the  wheels  were  raised 
and  set  on  an  uncertain  floor  of  rough  rocks. 
Waldon  jumped  to  his  seat  behind  the  wheel. 
The  motor  spit  and  steadied  to  the  old  familiar 
purr.  The  native  audience  stood  tense  and 
spellbound.  The  clutch  engaged.  With  a 
mighty  wrench,  the  big  car  tore  itself  free, 
scattering  behind  a  wild  volley  of  stones  and 
mud,  and  jumped  to  the  solid- ground  ahead. 

"ElToro!"  cried  a  Cuban. 

"  El  Toro  !  "  echoed  the  chorus.  And  thus  was 
christened  the  car. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  with  headlights  going  for 

[70] 


the  first  time  on  the  precious  store  of  gas,  when 
we  again  set  out  to  find  Santa  Clara.  The  hills 
were  flat-crowned  and  in  quick  succession.  We 
could  see  nothing  but  a  narrow  streak  of  yellow 
rock  ahead.  We  seemed  always  to  be  rising, 
rising,  rising,  to  the  top  of  everything.  Palestine 
must  have  looked  like  this  on  a  still,  dark  night. 
We  could  almost  imagine  some  Old  Testament 
friend  would  steal  out  of  the  dark  and  bid  us 
halt. 

Our  entrance  to  Santa  Clara  was  in  sharp 
contrast  to  the  last  few  hours  of  wandering  in  the 
solitude  of  the  black  night.  We  rambled  noisily 
over  its  cobbled  streets.  We  had  knocked  the 
muffler  away  from  the  exhaust  pipe  on  some 
grass-hidden  rock,  and  El  Toro  roared.  The 
whole  population  ran  to  the  iron-barred  windows 
or  into  the  streets  to  follow  us  in  a  curious, 
turbulent  stream. 

The  hotel  landlord  welcomed  us  at  the  door 
and,  as  it  was  now  raining  hard,  hurried  to  help  us 
find  shelter  for  the  car.  Then  we  ate  a  cold  and 
disappointing  meal  in  a  night  owl  street  cafe. 
An  excited  little  man  with  a  big  pad  of  paper, 
who  said  he  was  the  reporter  of  the  Santa  Clara 
newspaper,  persisted  in  getting  an  extensive 
interview  through  the  now  collapsed  interpreter. 
None  of  us  ever  read  that  story,  but,  judging 
from  the  manner  of  the  fervid  scribe,  it  must 
have  drained  empty  the  possibilities  of  Cuban 
journalism. 

We  retired  in  a  hopeful  mood.  This  had  been 
our  record  day — sixty-three  miles.    We  had  gone 

[71] 


to  Matanzas,  and  they  said  we  could  not.  We  had 
crossed  rivers  and  swamps,  and  they  had  said  we 
could  not.  In  five  days  we  had  gone  231  miles 
over  country  that  was  said  to  be  impossible  for 
any  four-wheeled  vehicle.  We  had  yet  to  cross 
the  mountains.  They  said  we  could  not,  but  we 
thought  we  could. 

Macagua  to  Santa  Clara  —  sixty-three  miles. 


[72] 


CHAPTER  VI 

/>>«  tlis  road  vjind  up-kiU  nil  (he  vsiy  ? 

}'«,  to  the  rvrjf  A»/t. 
Will  ly,  .it},''      i'rn«4/  tiik*  the  whole  long  day? 
'  i^hi,  my/rumd. 


'"'♦■nwtfns  TffiK.«*»'ri 


c 


"^AMAJUANl  is  not 
well  known.  We 
never  had  heard  of 

...,^.;y\  ^v\  J^vu^iitHvJ-q^^^sday, 
A>i.m>^v^a^Wk^f'«^i^,    1908. 
^  :^    //       By  noon  of  the  same 
day  we   found  that 
there  was  no  place  which  we 
wished  to  reach  quite  so  badly 
Camajuani.     We  wanted  to 
'     ^  other  places,  but,  to 
t-m,  we  had  to  go  via 
nd   driven   ourselves   into,  a 
li>ecause  we  had  followed  the 
i  ernandez,  urbane  landlord  of  the 
Sajita  Clara  Hotel. 

We  were  bound  southeastward  from  Santa 
Clara,  through  Placetas.  Camajuani  is  northeast 
of  Santa  Clara.  Senor  Fernandez  said  that  it 
WH.S  necessary  to  go  through  Camajuani  to  reach 

[7.5] 


CHAPTER  VI 

Does  the  road  wind  tip-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day''s  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  mom  to  night,  my  friend. 

—  Christina  Rossetti. 

AMAJUANI  is  not 
well  known.  We 
never  had  heard  of 
it  until  Tuesday, 
January  7,  1908. 
By  noon  of  the  same 
day  we  found  that 
there  was  no  place  which  we 
wished  to  reach  quite  so  badly 
as  Camajuani.  We  wanted  to 
go  to  a  lot  of  other  places,  but,  to 
reach  any  of  them,  we  had  to  go  via 
Camajuani.  We  had  driven  ourselves  into  a 
predicament  just  because  we  had  followed  the 
advice  of  one  Fernandez,  urbane  landlord  of  the 
Santa  Clara  Hotel. 

We  were  bound  southeastward  from  Santa 
Clara,  through  Placetas.  Camajuani  is  northeast 
of  Santa  Clara.  Senor  Fernandez  said  that  it 
was  necessary  to  go  through  Camajuani  to  reach 

[  75] 


Placetas.  We  believed  him.  He  also  told  us 
that  the  heavy  rain,  which  almost  obscured  the 
rugged  mountain  range  ahead  of  us,  would  not 
continue.  Again  we  believed  him,  although,  as 
we  eyed  the  morning  prospect,  it  did  not  look 
promising  to  us. 

At  noon  it  continued  to  rain.  Northern  rains 
of  our  previous  experience  had  been  mere 
sprinkles  in  comparison  with  this  tropical  down- 
pour. We  had  come  six  or  seven  miles.  There 
was  no  use  in  going  back,  because  that  was  just 
as  hard  as  going  ahead.  Without  sun,  compass, 
highway,  or  guide  of  any  kind,  we  were  not  much 
surer  of  the  location  of  Santa  Clara  than  we 
were  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  much-sought 
Camajuani.  It  was  a  rough,  wet  country,  looking 
as  though  nature  had  dumped  here  everything 
left  over  when  she  tired  of  molding  the  rest  of 
Cuba  into  shape. 

Rivers  and  creeks  were  at  the  bottom  of  each 
red  dirt  hill,  now  soaked  into  muggy  slime  in 
which  the  protruding  rocks  made  every  inch  of 
the  way  a  precarious,  uncertain  struggle.  As 
the  hills  became  higher  and  the  gorges  became 
deeper,  we  came  closer  to  the  great  ravines  of 
the  Santa  Fe  mountain  passes.  The  country 
was  rougher  than  any  we  had  yet  tackled.  The 
only  road  we  had  to  follow  was  the  rough  irregu- 
lar trillo,  or  pony  trail,  across  the  hills,  by  way 
of  the  innumerable  ravines,  washouts,  and  river 
beds. 

The  first  few  miles  out  of  Santa  Clara  were 
over  a  fairly  good  macadam  road,  which  gradually 

[76] 


dissolved  into  a  soggy  trail  of  wet  clay.  The 
first  tire  to  go  that  day  exploded  while  we  were 
wallowing  through  the  deep  mud  in  the  lee  of  a 
ruined  Spanish  fort.  Rogelio,  being  energetic 
and  just  as  keen  for  accomplishment  as  the  rest 
of  us,  volunteered  to  replace  this  tire.  On 
several  occasions  he  had  wished  to  help  us  in 
changing  the  inner  tubes  or  casings.  Not  wish- 
ing to  shirk  our  own  work,  however,  we  spared 
Rogelio  and  saved  him  for  the  pump.  Also,  on 
many  occasions  we  carefully  conserved  his  energy 
for  frequent  little  skits  with  the  machete,  which 
he  handled  nicely. 

We  knocked  off  work  to  prowl  around  the 
ruined  fort,  which,  evidently,  had  set  in  the 
center  of  a  much-battled  battle-field.  When  a 
running  schedule  approximates  a  mile  and  a  half 
an  hour,  a  few  extra  minutes  spent  in  sight- 
seeing do  not  seriously  affect  it.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  rain  continued  and  increased.  Wash- 
outs and  deep  ravines,  that  we  might  have 
crossed  the  day  before  without  serious  difficulty, 
were  now  becoming  almost  impassable  on  account 
of  the  swashy  mud.  Where  this  mud  was  only 
a  thin  layer  of  slime  over  the  native  rock,  the 
hillsides,  which  we  had  to  climb  in  a  zigzag 
fashion,  were  so  slippery  that  even  the  sure- 
footed Cuban  ponies  we  occasionally  met  on  the 
trail  would  slide  and  sprawl. 

Between  each  line  of  hills  ran  a  river.  This 
would  be  reached  by  following  down  a  tortuous 
pass  or  a  winding,  rough  shelf  on  the  side  of  a 
cliff.     Three  large  rivers  were  forded.     If  ever 

[77] 


there  had  been  bridges,  they  had  been  burnt. 
Each  ford  meant  a  slow,  difficult  drive  through 
water  nearly  two  feet  deep  and  over  a  treacher- 
ous bottom,  partly  of  stone,  partly  of  loose  rock, 
and  partly  of  clay  or  sand.  Sometimes,  in 
order  to  cross  a  river  a  hundred  yards  wide,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  drive  an  irregular,  oblique 
course  an  eighth  of  a  mile  long. 

When  we  could  not  follow  the  regular  path  up 
the  hillside  on  the  other  side  of  a  river,  we  would 
be  compelled  to  take  to  the  bare  side  of  the  hill, 
and  go  up  in  any  possible  direction  to  the  top 
of  the  bluff,  there  to  find  a  roundabout  way 
back  to  the  trail.  Many  of  the  mountain  passes 
were  so  narrow  and  so  furrowed  with  yawning 
gullies  that  we  were  forced  to  run  with  one 
wheel  on  a  slightly  sloping  side  wall  and  the 
other  on  the  narrow  crest  of  the  deepest  rut. 
This  frequently  compelled  us  to  cut  narrow 
shelves  in  the  rock  to  form  a  solid  footing  for 
the  wheels.  Both  going  down  the  ravines  and 
up  the  opposite  ones,  driving  was  a  case  of  slip- 
ping around  on  the  rut  brows.  Had  a  wheel 
dropped  into  one  of  these  ruts,  it  would  have 
meant  a  long,  tedious  job  of  jacking-up  on  a 
foundation  of  loose  rocks. 

We  must  have  been  about  a  third  of  the  way 
up  the  highest  crest  of  the  Santa  Fe  mountains 
at  noon.  The  car  had  tipped  sidewise  to  a  rak- 
ish angle,  with  the  left  wheels  deep  in  the  mud, 
the  middle  of  the  car  resting  on  ruts,  and  the 
right  wheels  in  space,  while  the  whole  car  was 
pointed  upward  on  a  stiff"  grade.    Everything  was 

[78] 


soaked,  including  our  box  of  groceries.  We 
opened  a  can  of  sausages  with  a  machete,  they 
being  the  only  food  which  the  rain  had  not 
spoiled. 

The  worst  insult  is  that  which  comes  from 
one's  own  brother.  As  we  sat  munching  our 
mock  luncheon,  while  the  rain  beat  against  our 
faces,  ran  down  our  backs,  flooded  our  tonneau, 
and  washed  the  bottom  out  of  the  ravine  we 
were  trying  to  climb,  we  were  greeted  by  a 
young  American  surveyor  on  horseback  and 
almost  hidden  within  the  ample  folds  of  a  rub- 
ber poncho.  We  explained  ourselves  and  he 
explained  himself,  and  then  started  to  explain 
the  Santa  Fe  mountains.  He  was  quite  certain 
that  we  could  never  reach  the  top  of  the  ridge  ; 
in  fact,  he  suggested  that  we  would  be  several 
kinds  of  profane  fools  to  try.  His  conversational 
tone  implied  that  he  thought  we  were,  anyway. 
His  sneering  demeanor  rankled.  We  were  glad 
when  he  and  his  prophecy  were  gone,  and  glad 
to  meet  a  couple  of  black  laborers  without  opin- 
ions but  with  good  muscles.  We  impressed 
them  into  service.  They  helped  us  dig,  scrape, 
and  carry  stones.  We  were  all  fighting  mad, 
and  we  all  worked. 

Foot  by  foot,  we  made  a  path  for  the  car  up 
the  mountain  and  the  car  climbed  the  mountain. 
Gradually,  we  won  the  summit  of  the  Santa  Fe 
ridge.  There  was  just  one  house  in  sight,  a 
shack  whose  rough,  slabbed  walls  were  not  tight 
enough  to  keep  out  the  deluge.  It  was  a  haven 
of  refuge  to  us,  and  the  poor  supper  we  ate  that 

[  79] 


night  on  the  damp,  storm-darkened  mountain 
peak  was  to  us  a  delectable  banquet.  The  night 
was  cold.  We  were  roughly  bedded  on  benches 
and  in  hammocks. 

The  farmer,  like  many  others  who  have  homes 
along  isolated  trails,  kept  a  small  supply  of 
goods  that  might  be  purchased  by  wayfarers. 
We  bought  four  cotton  blankets.  All  through 
the  long,  restless  hours,  a  thin-clad  little  black 
baby  wailed  most  dismally  with  the  cold.  That 
was  a  dreary  night  for  all  of  us.  We  knew  that 
we  had  done  a  lot,  but,  measured  on  the  map, 
that  lot  meant  exactly  fourteen  miles.  We 
wondered  what  we  would  do  the  next  day.  We 
wondered  where  we  would  have  been,  had  we  not 
followed  the  advice  given  us  at  Santa  Clara,  but 
had  gone  around  the  foot  of  the  Santa  Fes 
instead  of  over  their  worst  passes.  This,  our 
host  of  the  night  said,  we  should  have  done,  as 
the  correct  route  from  Santa  Clara  to  Placetas 
lay  in  almost  the  opposite  direction  to  the  way 
we  had  taken. 

Santa  Clara  to  Camp  Santa  Fe — fourteen  miles. 


[80] 


CHAPTER  VII 


having  I 


^ind  all  if<  •■:.     >.r>u:  ,r'.  •,    ir.- 


f 


OJTf  C 
.V 


S  of  sunburnt 
're  sur- 
i-e  is  a 
i  negro, 

oie,   who   IS 


delea  ait< 


modeled  after  Adonis, 

muscled     like    Atlas, 

.  '  ;  i*'  disposition  of  what- 

«id  and  done  God  it  was 

uad    the    attributes   of    a 

i  iiihful      Newfoundland      dog. 

The  twi'  hom  we  had  hired  the  previous 

to  -help  us  in  the  morning. 
^1 .  %  vciv  ■»■  iiatid  ere  we  awakened  in  the 
(lark,  wet  dawn  to  put  on  our  mud-plastered 
shoes  and  be  dressed. 

Before  we  ever  started  the  car,  we  went  out 
iiito  the  big  'swamps  that  lay  between  the  two 
next  hills  and  built  a  corduroy  road  of  brush 

[831 


f  luui  to  J'ord 

/enf^  ..fdt    clincii     i. 
lick   li(ul   /ID  pnfl)   I 

iimj  khuL' 


■-.m!^. 


m^ 


CHAPTER   VII 

One  who  Journeying 
Along  a  way  he  knows  not,  having  crossed 
A  place  of  drear  extent,  before  him  sees 
A  river  rushing  swiftly  toward  the  deep. 
And  all  its  tossing  current  vjhite  with  foam. 

—  Iliad. 

"ATIVES  of  sunburnt 
islands  often  are  sur- 
prising.     There  is  a 
type  of  Cuban  negro, 
or  Creole,   who   is 
modeled  after  Adonis, 
muscled     like    Atlas, 
'4    and  with  the  disposition  of  what- 
ever dead  and  done  God  it  was 
■  -r  c?;  ^';^^         who    had    the    attributes   of    a 
'    '  faithful      Newfoundland      dog. 

The  two  men  whom  we  had  hired  the  previous 
evening  came  back  to  help  us  in  the  morning. 
They  were  on  hand  ere  we  awakened  in  the 
dark,  wet  dawn  to  put  on  our  mud-plastered 
shoes  and  be  dressed. 

Before  we  ever  started  the  car,  we  went  out 
into  the  big  swamps  that  lay  between  the  two 
next  hills  and  built  a  corduroy  road  of  brush 

[83] 


and  palm  trunks.  The  rain  had  stopped  for  the 
moment,  but  the  whole  land  was  water-logged. 
While  the  two  Cubans  whacked  and  slashed  at 
brush  and  palms,  we  lugged  and  carried  and  built 
our  road.  It  takes  skill  as  well  as  muscle  to  chop 
wood  with  a  machete.  The  Cubans  had  both. 
We  marveled  that  they  could  be  negroes  and 
that  the  strange  mixture  of  Spanish  and  African 
blood  could  produce,  in  a  southern  country,  such 
superb  giants. 

To  get  out  of  the  mountains  we  had  to  ford  two 
more  rivers.  One  was  a  typical  stream.  The 
other  was  a  fast-flowing  torrent  set  down  in  a 
gorge  that  had  once  been  bridged,  but  which  now 
had  no  path  leading  to  a  crossing  of  any  kind. 
Ox  carts  had  not  yet  made  a  trail  through  it. 
Only  horses  had  forded.  It  was  a  disappointing 
sight,  after  a  week  of  endeavor  such  as  ours  had 
been.  Casually,  it  looked  like  our  finish.  We 
hunted  up  and  down  its  banks  for  a  defile  or  a 
shelf  that  we  could  follow  to  the  bottom.  Two 
of  us  stripped  and  swam  into  the  river,  looking 
for  a  path  where  the  uneven  bed  formed  ledges 
high  enough  and  wide  enough  to  make  a  feasible 
route  for  the  car  to  be  driven  across.  In  some 
places  immense  boulders  absolutely  blocked  our 
way.  From  the  top  of  the  gorge  a  quartette  of 
rural  senoritas,  apparently  shocked,  and  yet  as 
obviously  pleased,  by  this  unusual  exhibition, 
peeped  slyly  at  us  through  the  grass. 

Finally,  with  one  of  us  guiding  each  front 
wheel,  the  car  was  driven  slowly  through  the 
river  on  one  of  the  twisted  lines  of  rock.     It  was 

[843 


nearly  noon  when  we  reached  Camajuani.  No 
king  ever  rode  into  his  capital  with  finer  airs. 
Our  Cuban  helpers  were  perched  on  the  running 
boards,  their  russet  hides  gleaming  in  the  sun  and 
their  faces  beaming  with  pride  at  being  a  part  of 
such  an  unwonted  expedition.  We  stopped  for 
breakfast,  having  had  nothing  except  a  hurried 
cup  of  very  black  and  very  dirty  coffee  that  morn- 
ing. We  had  come  three  miles.  Our  chests 
expanded.  Imagine  our  glee  when,  in  the  cafe 
where  we  awaited  our  chicken  and  rice  we  espied 
our  friend,  the  surveyor.  I  have  this  good  to  report 
of  him.  He  swallowed  his  previous  misjudgment 
of  our  capabilities  with  generous  congratulations 
and  offered  to  buy  us  a  bottle  of  Rioja  bianco. 

By  comparison  with  the  sloppy,  muddy  ravines, 
the  long,  wiggling  trail  of  angular  rocks  between 
Camajuani  and  Salamanca  were,  to  us,  a  boule- 
vard. We  struck  south  for  Placetas,  being  just 
as  far  away  from  it  as  when  we  had  left  Santa 
Clara.  The  stony  trail  gradually  led  to  lower 
land,  where  there  was  nothing  underneath  except 
sloughs,  gullies  and  rivers  and  nothing  above 
except  rain  and  a  black,  angry  sky. 

We  had  obtained  great  skill  on  mud  holes. 
We  could  now  tell  the  hard  bottom  ones  from 
the  mires  without  sounding.  Driving  to  the  edge 
of  a  sort  of  plateau,  there  spread  before  us  a  plashy 
lowland,  which  seemed  to  be  nothing  but  a  succes- 
sion of  marshes.  On  the  other  side  rose  the  hazy 
outlines  of  a  mountain  range,  but  we  knew  what 
work  it  would  take  to  reach  those  hills.  We 
knew  that  the  tall  grass  hid  mud  holes  and  ruts 

[85] 


where  ox  carts  had  been  laboriously  dragged 
across. 

As  the  gloom  of  the  rainy  afternoon  deepened, 
telling  that  the  meager  sunlight  was  about  to 
disappear,  we  worried  along  past  a  picturesque 
old  Spanish  village,  set  all  alone  in  the  desolation, 
with  its  ruined  cathedral  another  milestone  in 
the  path  of  the  recent  war.  We  sought  a  sugar 
mill,  tucked  in  a  corner  of  the  distant  hills.  The 
history  of  two  days  before  repeated  itself.  Again 
we  sank  into  the  mud  as  darkness  hid  our  plight. 

These  typical  pantanos,  or  mud  holes,  are 
simply  enlargements  of  long,  narrow  rivers  of 
mud.  You  may  walk  up  and  down  and  find  no 
place  where  it  is  easier  to  pass  than  at  any  other 
place.  Where  we  failed  in  crossing,  either  by 
driving  carefully  over  the  more  solid  lumps  of 
earth  or  by  rushing  the  narrowest  place,  there 
remained  just  one  thing  to  do:  jack  up  each  wheel 
in  succession  and  build  a  solid  foundation  of  stone 
underneath.  With  all  four  wheels  in  the  mud, 
this  is  a  tiresome  task,  at  sun  down,  in  an  unknown 
country,  and  away  from  even  the  trace  of  a  town. 

Once  up  out  of  the  mud  and  going,  we  lost 
no  time  in  driving  across  a  field  to  a  farm- 
house we  had  spied.  It  offered  no  accommodation, 
but  a  short  distance  on  the  other  side  of  a  muddy 
river  was  a  sugar  mill.  We  left  the  car  standing 
in  the  rain  by  the  farmhouse  and  pushed  ahead 
on  foot,  to  the  mill,  for  we  were  too  tired  and 
hungry  to  tackle  the  job  of  driving  the  car 
across  the  river  in  the  darkness. 

At  every  large  sugar  mill  there  is  a  laborers' 

[86] 


eating  house,  in  combination  with  the  store. 
Both  first  and  second-class  meals  are  served.  We 
ate  first  class  and  enjoyed  it.  We  could  have 
eaten  second  class  and,  at  least,  swallowed  it,  for 
our  appetites  had  lost  all  trace  of  daintiness. 

That  night  we  found  out  the  true  meaning  of 
hacienda.  It  is  a  beautiful  Spanish  house,  set  in 
the  middle  of  thousands  of  acres  of  sugar  cane 
and  surrounded  by  people  who  live,  but  appear 
to  have  no  homes.  As  a  wayfarer,  you  knock 
timidly  at  the  door  above  the  grand  staircase 
which  is  on  the  outside  of  the  house,  because 
there  is  only  one  floor  to  the  inside.  Through 
the  latticed  window  a  female  voice  shrieks : 

"  Que  hay !  "  and  your  interpreter  reels  off  a 
thousand  words  of  address,  introduction,  request, 
and  petition. 

Then  a  man's  voice  breaks  out  of  the  window, 
but  the  most  beautiful  Castillian  rhetoric,  sung 
by  the  most  intelligent  interpreter,  cannot  get 
him  to  open  the  door.  That  is  an  hacienda.  We 
put  up  at  the  eating  house. 

Over  the  table  on  which  we  had  eaten,  we 
spread  many  layers  of  empty  sugar  bags,  bor- 
rowed from  the  store,  whereat,  also,  we  bought 
some  Cuban-made  shoes  and  cigarros  arroz.  In 
the  upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  room  there 
was  an  acetylene  generator.  In  the  lower  left- 
hand  corner  was  a  baker's  oven.  Both  were  busy 
on  the  night  shift.  Between  these  two  evils  we 
stretched  flat  on  our  backs  on  the  table,  smoked 
and  dropped  the  burnt  cigarettes,  one  after 
another,  on  the  floor  of  sun-dried  tile.    We  made 

[87] 


jokes  at  our  own  expense  and  drew  our  cotton 
blankets  closer  about  our  necks  as  the  chill  of  the 
night  increased. 

Toward  morning  we  gave  up  the  endeavor  to 
sleep  and  retired  to  the  kitchen.  The  charcoal 
fire  was  almost  out  and  we  piled  on  more  fuel. 
We  took  off  our  shoes  and  some  of  our  clothes 
and  laid  them  around  the  edge  of  the  fire  to  dry. 
The  baker  gave  us  fresh  bread  and  we  had  the 
first  helping  of  coffee,  and  eggs  fried  by  dropping 
them  into  an  immense  pan  of  deep  grease,  which 
appeared  to  have  been  used  on  the  same  stove, 
in  the  same  pan,  for  the  same  purpose,  day  in  and 
day  out  for  several  years.  Then  we  sat  down  to 
await  daylight. 

Camp  Santa  Fe  to  Camp  Convenio — thirteen  miles. 


[88] 


C  HAPTER  VIII 

Whtn  /  trojr  tit  hutn'^,  /  trrw  in  a  better  plnce : 
lint  trarfllKTs  must  be  content. 

-  An  Y»0  Lik'-  i 


P 


EOPIJ^  \f  diy 

under  the  ,  e  of 

ecessity.      When    we 

had  begun  driving  over 

■ms^mr  '\  ^th<i^^l^oad^gBS^ojy^¥ior  ot* 

-5:^;.  .v.-^nlQWm'it>gft)>hd<d  ivfavored 

the  car.     In  crossing 

extremely   bad    places 

.^    invapably   chose    the    route 

winch    niade   the  car's  task  the 

I^ater  we  learned  that 

1  Taction  and  we  began  to 

k  from  the  sugar  mill,  in  the  early 
,  to  the  farmhouse  where  we  had  left 
i),  we  noticed  two  chances  of  crossing  tht 
niuggj'  river  where  autom'obiling  in  Cuba  had 
ceased  the  night  before.  One  place  was  wide, 
low,  and  flat.  It  meant  long  hours  of  tec^" 
filling  in  with  brush.  The  other  was  a  nar. 
cut  Ixrween  twa  pre<'ipitx)us  walls,     We  chose 


r.i    i'ini 


in  tfir  roitt>'hcsi  ravines:''^ 


IE  I'AiiK  9;i. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

When  I  was  at  home,  J  icas  in  a  better  place  ; 
hut  travellers  must  he  content. 

—  As  You  Like  It. 


T^EOPLE  learn  rapidly 


under  the  pressure  of 
necessity.  When  we 
had  begun  driving  over 
the  roadless  interior  of 
Cuba  we  had  favored 
the  car.  In  crossing 
extremely  bad  places 
we  invariably  chose  the  route 
which  made  the  car's  task  the 
lightest.  Later  we  learned  that 
all  the  car  needed  was  traction  and  we  began  to 
favor  ourselves. 

Going  back  from  the  sugar  mill,  in  the  early 
morning,  to  the  farmhouse  where  we  had  left 
El  Toro,  we  noticed  two  chances  of  crossing  the 
muggy  river  where  automobiling  in  Cuba  had 
ceased  the  night  before.  One  place  was  wide, 
low,  and  flat.  It  meant  long  hours  of  tedious 
filling  in  with  brush.  The  other  was  a  narrow 
cut  between  two  precipitous  walls.     We  chose 

[91] 


the  cut,  for  it  required  only  a  few  minutes  to  fill 
the  narrow  bottom  with  enough  brush  to  allow 
the  car  to  be  driven  down  one  hillside  and  up 
the  other  as  fast  as  all  its  power  could  take  it. 

Our  underbrush  pontoons  were  engineering 
triumphs.  We  knew  exactly  how  much  brush 
it  required  to  support  the  car  when  driven 
rapidly  over  one  of  them.  It  would  have  been  a 
mere  waste  of  labor  to  have  piled  on  enough 
brush  to  allow  slow  driving,  stopping,  or  recross- 
ing.  The  whole  country  was  a  wide  morass. 
We  were  in  the  lowland,  between  two  ranges  of 
mountains.  The  only  difference  between  what 
we  called  mud  holes  and  the  rest  of  the  country, 
was  that  the  mud  holes  had  no  bottom,  whereas 
the  hard  ground  or  stone  underneath  the 
remaining  miles  of  our  travel  allowed  us  to 
plow  slowly  through  the  surface  mire. 

Near  the  mill  we  halted  before  a  strange  and 
fascinating  scene.  A  dozen  heavy  carts,  loaded 
with  sugar  cane,  that  had  been  left  outside  the 
mill  yard  the  night  before,  clogged  the  only 
available  passageway  to  the  country  beyond. 
We  sat  in  the  car  and  watched  a  hundred  men 
and  fifty  straining,  tugging  bulls  try  to  get  the 
heavy  carts  through  the  mud,  in  which  they 
settled  to  their  axles.  Musical,  yet  vicious, 
pleading,  yet  commanding,  using  goad  as  well 
as  voice,  the  violent  drivers  yelled  at  each  strug- 
gling bull  by  name : 

"  Tamarindo !      Canario ! " 

Often  a  dozen  yelled  in  chorus.  Failing  to 
budge  the  foremost  cart,  all  ceased  their  efforts 

[92] 


and,  wildly  gesticulating,  argued  and  wrangled 
while  more  bulls  were  brought  from  a  rear  cart 
and  hitched  to  the  one  stuck  in  the  mud  ahead. 
It  took  a  dozen  of  the  wide-shouldered,  power- 
ful bulls,  pulling  all  together,  with  all  their 
might,  to  drag  each  cart  to  the  hard  ground  in 
the  mill  yard.  In  the  meantime,  scores  of  idle 
mill  laborers,  representing  every  type  which  the 
island  affords,  lounged  around,  dividing  their 
attention  between  the  curious  struggle  and  the 
strange  sight  which  we  made  in  our  motor  car. 
While  they  watched  with  curious  eyes,  they 
pared  long  sugar  canes  with  skillful  flips  of  their 
machetes  and  sucked  the  thin  sweetness. 

At  last  an  opening  was  effected.  Straddling 
the  gaping  ruts,  with  wheels  twisted  to  the  full 
limit  of  the  springs,  Waldon  drove  the  car  out 
of  the  mess.  Leaving  behind  a  great  babel  of 
unintelligible  tongues,  we  went  on  our  way 
toward  Placetas.  Sliding  down  embankments, 
crossing  pools,  digging  trenches  to  obtain  a  foot- 
ing for  the  wheels  in  the  roughest  ravines,  we 
reached  the  bed  of  a  dried  river,  whose  hard 
bottom  held  only  occasional  pools  of  water  made 
by  the  recent  rains.  We  followed  this  to  a  hill, 
from  whose  brow  a  level  path  led  to  Placetas. 

Here  was  a  post  of  the  United  States  Army 
and  the  entire  force,  commissioned  and  enlisted, 
turned  out  to  welcome  us  and  get  what  home 
news  we  had  to  offer.  For  seventeen  months 
these  regulars  had  been  in  the  little  interior  town 
and  were  glad  to  talk  with  Americans.  They 
told    us    about    themselves    and     about    their 

[93] 


duties.  They  told  us  how  they  had  put  down 
insurrections  without  ever  firing  a  cartridge. 
The  Cuban  is  not  a  coward.  Naturally  he  is  a 
fighter,  but  he  knows  there  is  an  awful  wallop 
in  the  sinewy  fist  of  Uncle  Sam. 

The  soldier  boys  directed  us  to  a  trail,  among 
four,  at  the  other  edge  of  town.  We  took  the 
wrong  one.  After  many  miles  of  driving  over 
the  damp  lowlands,  with  all  sense  of  direction 
lost  in  the  dark,  sunless  day,  we  learned  from  a 
passing  farmer  that  we  were  going  straight  back- 
ward toward  Santa  Clara.  Also,  we  found  that 
we  were  on  the  trail  which  we  should  have  taken 
before  we  had  been  sent  up  among  the  hills 
around  Camajuani. 

Retracing  six  or  seven  miles,  we  found  an  old, 
unused  trail  through  the  grass  and  mud,  which 
looked  like  a  short  cut  in  the  right  direction. 
There  was  no  variety  and  no  town.  We  just 
plugged  along  in  the  mud,  sweated  under  the 
hard  work  of  crossing  washouts,  or  worried 
through  the  tall,  damp  grass.  We  knew  by  our 
watches  that  the  little  daylight  was  about  to 
depart,  and,  so,  when  we  found  a  used  trail,  we 
took  to  it,  although  we  had  no  idea  where  it 
went.  At  least,  the  trail  meant  a  country  store 
or  a  farmhouse. 

Now  it  was  raining  again  and  we  did  our  best 
to  hurry  toward  a  hut,  just  visible  in.  the  waning 
light.  Almost  in  front  of  it,  the  front  tire 
exploded,  while  warping  the  car  over  the  jagged 
rocks  of  a  washout.  As  we  replaced  it  the 
interpreter  negotiated  with  the  storekeeper  for 

[94] 


shelter  and  food.  It  proved  that  the  whole 
family  was  sick,  and  that  we  could  not  come  in. 
However,  we  were  informed  that  a  tobacco 
grower  lived  a  mile  farther  on.  We  took  the 
tobacco  grower  for  granted,  drove  through  his 
fences  and  across  his  fields,  and  lost  not  one 
minute  of  time  making  the  last  of  our  twenty- 
seven  miles  for  the  day.  When  we  got  to  his 
rather  pretentious  hut,  which  had  two  rooms  and 
several  lesser  buildings  surrounding  it,  we  told 
Rogelio  to  inform  him  that  he  was  our  host,  was 
very  glad  to  see  us,  and  that  we  could  have 
everything  there  was  in  the  place  to  eat.  We 
got  it. 

They  made  the  meal  from  the  ground  up  ; 
killing  and  cleaning  guinea  hens,  roasting  and 
grinding  coffee — for,  like  many  other  farmers, 
this  one  grew  his  own  coffee — cooking  rice,  and 
boiling  pottage. 

There  is  every  opportunity  to  eat  well  in 
Cuba.  Where  they  do  not  eat  well,  it  is  because 
they  do  not  care  or  know  how.  Chickens  and 
guinea  hens  are  raised  without  care.  There  is 
generally  a  guinea  hen  or  a  quail  or  some  other 
fat  bird  wandering  around  the  house,  anxious  to 
be  shot  for  breakfast,  dinner,  or  supper.  Any- 
thing that  you  can  stick  into  the  ground  will 
grow.  It  is  possible  to  raise  coffee  on  one  side 
of  the  house  and  sweet  potatoes  on  the  other, 
bananas  just  outside  the  lean-to  and  potatoes  in 
the  front  yard. 

There  is  a  funny  touch  of  Cuban  innocence  in 
their  potatoes.     They  care  little  for  the  small 

[95] 


ones  which  grow  down  there,  and  so  they  ship 
them  to  the  United  States,  where  the  Broadway 
hostelries  serve  them  as  Bermudas  and  other 
varieties  costing  four  times  the  usual  price.  In 
exchange,  Cuba  imports  the  vulgar  Irish  variety 
at  extravagant  prices  and  cares  not  that  half  of 
them  have  rotted  away  in  transit.  Bananas  are 
the  staple  vegetable.  They  are  rarely  ripened 
and  eaten  as  fruit.  Generally,  they  are  picked 
and  cooked  green,  by  frying,  like  potatoes. 

The  lack  of  household  economy  in  eating  also 
applies  to  meats.  Although  there  is  plenty  of 
fowl  and  a  bountiful  supply  of  vegetables,  the 
stock-yards  of  Chicago  have  an  extensive  Cuban 
trade  in  canned  meats,  of  the  doubtful,  aged 
varieties.  Domestic  beef  is  muscular  and  better 
adapted  to  the  pulling  of  ox  carts  than  to  the 
delectation  of  satiated  appetites. 

As  we  sat  on  the  hard  benches,  in  the  dirt- 
floored  living  room,  waiting  for  our  supper, 
Rogelio  slumbered.  The  three  men  of  the 
establishment  tried  to  talk  with  us,  but  we  could 
only  point  to  the  peacefully  sleeping  interpreter. 
Although  we  protested,  the  family  served  our 
meal  before  it  sat  down  to  its  own.  They 
watched  us  eat,  and  then  we  were  almost  as 
curious  and  possibly  as  unreserved  in  our  candid 
staring  while  we  watched  them  eat. 

The  gathering  was  an  unusual  and  picturesque 
one — planter  in  white  starched  suit,  laborers  in 
rough,  nondescript  garb,  women  in  loose  calico 
dresses,  children  in  dirty  cotton  slips,  a  naked 
baby   on   the    floor,   oblivious   to   surroundings 

[  96  ] 


while  it  played  with  a  coquettish  kitten,  and  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  house  eating  thick  pottage 
from  a  large  spoon  with  her  fingers.  Let  it  not 
be  considered,  however,  because  the  senorita  of 
the  far-away  tobacco  plantation  uses  her  fingers 
to  segregate  the  meat  from  the  soup,  that  she  is 
a  spurious  senorita.  She  has  the  ordinary  and 
universal  charm  of  the  backwoods  maiden  every- 
where. You  will  notice  that  literature  always  is 
prone  to  get  human  interest  by  ringing  in  a 
peasant  lass,  a  milkmaid,  or  some  other  daughter 
of  the  untonsured  meadows.  I  simply  imitate 
literature  by  offering  an  olive-tinted  senorita  who 
shyly  glances  over  a  huge  spoon,  from  which  she 
picks  out  choice  chunks  of  chicken  with  her  more 
or  less  dainty  fingers. 

It  was  a  big  family  for  such  a  small  house,  and 
they  told  us  we  might  sleep  in  the  tobacco  store 
house.  Senorita  and  sefiora  departed  to  prepare 
our  beds.  Returning,  they  beamed  hospitably, 
and  said  that  they  had  made  better  provision  for 
us,  in  another  building  close  to  hand.  Waldon, 
with  the  lighted  side  lamp  in  one  hand,  gallantly 
accompanied  the  ladies  as  they  escorted  us  to  our 
bedchamber.  He  lost  his  gallantry  and  nearly 
dropped  the  lamp  when  his  glance  followed  its 
feeble  rays  into  the  shed. 

"  Carajo  !  —  and  then  some  in  English !  Fel- 
lows, it's  a  pig  pen  ! " 

He  was  right.  One  half  the  interior  was 
fenced  off  by  a  few  slabs.  Back  of  the  fence 
were  a  dozen  grunting  pigs.  In  front  of  the 
fence  were  piles  of  corn.      Above  the  pigs  was  a 

[97] 


platform  on  which  was  piled  more  corn.  Two 
hammocks  were  swung  on  what  Crebbin,  who 
still  had  a  laugh  in  him,  naively  called  the 
mezzanine  floor.  On  the  ground  floor  were  two 
more  hammocks. 

We  matched  for  the  mezzanine  beds  and 
retired.  Outside,  it  rained.  Inside,  the  pigs 
grunted.  We  made  merry.  Sleeping  with  pigs 
was  more  nearly  a  joke  than  a  hardship.  We 
repeated  the  name  of  the  locality  to  ourselves, 
"  Casa  Cinco."  Never  will  we  forget  Casa  Cinco. 
Bent  like  half-opened  jack  knives,  in  canvas 
hammocks,  we  talked  and  laughed,  and  laughed 
and  talked,  and  fell  asleep  to  the  lullaby  of 
grunting  swine. 

Camp  Convenio  to  Casa  Cinco  —  twenty-seven  miles. 


[98] 


uTi',^/ 


.801  aoAH  afm 

—  Qu'mUliM.' 

iky    La 
' »  «  uerto,  De 

C.=  (\       Three 

mountains,  like  any 
otlier  mountains,  stick- 
ing   into   the   clouds. 
Three  mountains, 
below  which  lay  Sancti  Spiritus.  Like 
Mohammed,  the  mountains  had  it  on 
us.     They  would  not  come  to  us;  we 
would  have  to  go  to  them.       The 
mountains  were  not  \  ^sjfjle  in  the  morning,  but 
the  planter  said  they  were  there.    We  a^*  -^  '  '*n 
where  wh5  Sancti,.Spiril;us,  and  lie, said,,,  o 

the  me  We, asked    him.  how   lar  was 

bancti  •;,  and„  he  .shook    his  ,  head.     v^.  e 

stalled.^,,  .,n.;^>,v*ai^Hnmtams,  determined  to  r^*  •^' 
Sancti  Spiritus  that  day  regardless  of  condi 
distance,  or  direction. 

The  same  old  acts  were  rehearsed  wich  new 
scenery.  Down  gullies  we  twisted  to  wide 
rivers,  forded  them  and  scrambled  up  tlie  banks, 

[  101  1 


The  okhst  cathedral  in  Cuba,  iceaihtr- 
beaten,  bid  proudly  rmn^  over  the  Unt 
tiled  houses  of  the  townJ" 


CHAPTER   IX 

Deficit  omne  quod  nascitur. 
—  Quintilian. 

AST  WARD    lay    La 

Gloria,  Del  Tuerto,De 
Caballete.  Three 
mountains,  like  any 
other  mountains,  stick- 
ing into  the  clouds. 
'     y»/\r'''^  ^        Three  mountains, 

Jxv^  >  r  below  which  lay  Sancti  Spiritus.  Like 
v^^^  Mohammed,  the  mountains  had  it  on 
us.  They  would  not  come  to  us ;  we 
would  have  to  go  to  them.  The 
mountains  were  not  visible  in  the  morning,  but 
the  planter  said  they  were  there.  We  asked  him 
where  was  Sancti  Spiritus,  and  he  said  to  go  to 
the  mountains.  We  asked  him  how  far  was 
Sancti  Spiritus,  and  he  shook  his  head.  We 
started  for  the  mountains,  determined  to  reach 
Sancti  Spiritus  that  day  regardless  of  conditions, 
distance,  or  direction. 

The  same  old  acts  were  rehearsed  with  new 
scenery.  Down  gullies  we  twisted  to  wide 
rivers,  forded  them  and  scrambled  up  the  banks, 

[101] 


only  to  drop  again  into  marsh  or  perform  on  the 
high  spots  over  ruts  that  the  rain  could  not  wash 
out,  but  which  it  made  slippery  beyond  descrip- 
tion. We  did  a  lot  of  driving  through  fields. 
Where  there  were  fences,  they  were  either  of  stone 
or  barbed  wire.  The  latter  consisted  of  two  or  three 
loosely  drawn  strands  of  wire,  held  by  an  occa- 
sional permanent  post,  but,  principally,  by  loose 
sticks.  We  cut  the  wires  with  pliers,  dropped 
the  fence,  drove  into  the  field,  picked  up  the  fence, 
joined  its  loose  ends  as  best  we  could  and  drove 
on.  In  order  to  go  a  mile  or  two  we  sometimes 
had  to  pass  through  a  dozen  fields  and  cut  a  dozen 
fences.  The  fields  which  we  preferred  to  the 
trail  were  either  plowed  ground  or  simply  rough 
land  which  never  had  been  tilled.  Always,  it  was 
covered  with  stones  and  it  was  never  level. 

Through  the  beating  rain  we  rose  to  the  top  of 
the  ridge  which  had  framed  our  view,  and  saw, 
behind  us,  laid  out  as  on  a  map,  the  last  river  we 
had  forded  and,  in  front  of  us,  the  next  one  we 
would  have  to  ford.  Away  over  at  the  right, 
sharp-nosed  Pico  Tuerto  jutted  skyward  from 
between  its  squatter  brothers,  Caballete  and 
Gloria.  Each  successive  hill  became  higher. 
Each  was  flat  topped  like  a  small  plateau. 
Between  them  were  swamps. 

A  loquacious  dissembler  at  a  small  town  said 
that  a  macadam  road,  a  relic  of  early  Spanish 
days,  started  at  the  next  hill  and  ran  straight  to 
Sancti  Spiritus.  With  tire  chains  broken  and 
breaking,  as  they  were  dragged  over  the  scraggy 
roads,  climb  after  climb,  descent  after  descent, 

[  102  ] 


we  kept  at  it,  in  the  pouring  rain,  looking  for 
that  road  just  at  the  top  of  the  next  hill.  It  was 
like  trying  to  catch  up  with  to-morrow.  Sancti 
Spiritus  was  near.  We  knew  that,  but  night  was 
getting  nearer.  We  fretted  at  delay  and  took 
unusual  chances  on  the  hills.  Sancti  Spiritus 
assumed  the  aspect  of  a  myth. 

About  the  time  we  had  given  up  hope  for  the 
day,  we  found  a  bridge  and  then  another,  and,  at 
last,  we  found  the  promised  highway.  It  was 
worn  and  full  of  holes,  but  it  was  high,  hard,  and 
almost  level.  The  clouds  parted  and  the  sun 
beamed  a  bright  farewell,  just  before  it  dropped 
from  sight  behind  the  mountains.  High  on  a 
neighboring  crest  was  silhouetted  against  the 
glowing,  copper-colored  sky  a  lone  block  house. 
Below  it,  between  a  pair  of  spreading  laurels,  stood 
the  ruins  of  a  great  mansion  which  had  been  the 
quarters  of  some  luckless  Spanish  general  who 
allowed  the  Cubans  to  shoot  him  out  of  house  and 
home.  A  massive  stone  bridge,  weathered  by  the 
many  years  throughout  which  it  had  served 
generation  after  generation,  led  us  over  the  last 
river.  We  climbed  the  last  hill.  Below  us 
spread  the  red  roofs  of  Sancti  Spiritus. 

The  town  received  us  boisterously.  Each 
crooked  street  filled  with  noisy  crowds  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  who  darted  from  their  homes 
to  chase  after  us  to  the  hotel,  even  as  though 
there  was  nothing  else  in  Sancti  Spiritus  to  think 
of  that  evening.  Sancti  Spiritus  was  innocent  in 
automobiles,  but  it  had  heard  of  us.  By  mail 
had  come  the  Santa  Clara  paper,  telling  about 

[103] 


the  Americans   in   the   automobile   which  was 
named  El  Toro. 

In  the  immense  bedroom  of  the  ancient  hotel, 
while  we  waited  for  water  to  be  brought  that  we 
might  wash,  we  sat  on  the  edges  of  the  canopied 
beds,  looked  at  each  other,  and  merely  laughed. 
There  was  something  ridiculous  in  being  there. 
The  adventure  was  over.  We  had  come  to  the 
mountains. 

Why  ?     Because. 

The  story  of  Saturday,  loitered  away  in  this 
peculiar  and  venerable  town,  is  another  story. 
Dressed  in  odds  and  ends  of  garments  picked  up 
at  the  local  stores,  to  replace  the  mud-covered,  tat- 
tered clothes  we  had  worn  continuously  for  a  week 
and  a  half,  we  strayed  around  its  crooked  streets, 
posed  in  the  plaza  that  the  wondering  children 
might  gaze  upon  us,  and  lounged  in  the  hotel 
courtyard  among  the  flowers.  Across  the  corner 
from  the  plaza  stands  the  oldest  cathedral  in 
Cuba,  weatherbeaten,  but  proudly  rising  over  the 
low  tiled  houses  of  the  town.  It  represents  a 
civilization  and  an  art  which  is  wasted  on  the 
reconstructed  Cuban.  The  latter  has  no  apparent 
reverence  for  the  picturesque  architecture  and 
the  quaint  religious  figures  housed  within  its 
crumbling  walls. 

The  Supreme  Being  of  that  vicinity  was  Captain 
Wise.  His  headquarters  were  on  a  hill  overlook- 
ing the  town,  and  he  commanded  a  company  of 
United  States  marines,  who  had  built  comfortable 
quarters  and  spent  their  time  going  through  the 
motions  of  military  life,  playing  baseball  and 

[  104  ] 


performing  the  duties  of  an  army  of  pacification 
in  charge  of  a  lot  of  scrappy  islanders,  who,  from 
el  Senor  Alcalde  to  el  peon,  were,  after  all,  noth- 
ing but  spiggoties  in  the  eyes  of  an  American 
private  soldier. 

It  was  good  to  be  among  these  child-like 
American  boys.  We  had  done  a  little  fighting 
ourselves,  of  a  different  kind.  We  had  gone 
through  districts  where  all  Cuba  said  we  could 
not  go.  We  had  accomplished  the  impossible 
and  were  satisfied.  Mingled  with  our  pride, 
however,  was  a  new  respect  for  these  greatest  of 
soldiers,  and,  like  them,  having  done  what  we  had 
come  to  do,  we  wanted  to  go  home.  There  was 
a  little  bit  of  extra  sentiment  that  night,  with  all 
of  the  Americans  in  the  place  gathered  at  head- 
quarters, waiting  for  retreat  to  sound,  when,  under 
La  Gloria's  shadow,  at  the  sinking  of  the  sun,  the 
stars-and-stripes  dropped  upon  the  blood-red  soil 
of  new-old  Cuba. 

Now  for  the  anti-climax,  for  it  is  an  anti-climax 
to  load  an  automobile  onto  a  flat  car,  in  the  dark- 
ness which  shrouds  such  a  town  as  Sancti  Spiritus. 
It  is  an  anti-climax  to  be  dragged  away  at  dawn  by 
a  wheezy  engine  over  the  wabbly,  rusted  tracks 
of  a  stray  branch  railway.  It  is  an  anti-climax 
to  sit  at  a  wayside  station  like  Zaza  del  Medio, 
waiting  for  the  daily  train  to  Havana,  that  gay 
decoy  which  draws  tourists  to  Cuba.  It  is  an 
anti-climax,  after  one  has  come  hundreds  of  miles 
in  an  automobile  over  land  which  no  vehicle  was 
ever  meant  to  traverse,  and,  then,  at  the  sight  of  a 
fussing,  careening  sample  of  a  railway  train,  to 

[  105  ] 


dig  deep  into  your  pockets  for  the  wherewithal 
to  purchase  a  mere  ticket.  We  had  left  on 
hand  little  of  the  coin  of  the  realm — any  old 
realm,  Spanish  or  American.  So,  trying  to  for- 
get who  and  when  and  where  we  came  from,  we 
gave  up  our  little  mite  for  seats  in  the  second- 
class  carriage. 

All  night  we  sat  in  frozen  silence  by  the  open 
windows,  eying  in  tired  disgust  the  dirty  black 
Cubans  who  shared  our  torture.  We  had  not 
come  for  this,  but  now  we  realized  what  we  had 
come  for.  We  had  come  to  make  good  on  the 
roadless  wastes.  This  railway  coach  was  not 
Cuba ;  the  Cuba  we  knew  was  over  at  Casa  Cinco, 
where  the  pig  pens  have  mezzanine  floors  and 
serve  as  hotels.  We  were  going  back  to  Havana. 
Havana  was  not  Cuba ;  Cuba  was  at  the  top  of 
the  Santa  Fe  mountains,  where  the  rain  washes 
the  traveler's  hopes  down  the  hillside  and  leaves 
him  staring  into  the  dark,  cold  night,  speculating 
on  the  whereabouts  of  Camajuani. 

Trundling  along  behind,  on  a  flat  car,  was  an 
automobile.  It  was  more  than  an  automobile, 
as  it  had  an  identity  of  its  own.  It  was  El  Toro. 
There  were  no  other  Packards  like  it.  It  had 
done  more  than  we  had  done,  for  we  simply  had 
given  it  a  chance.  We  simply  were  engineers 
in  traction.  We  had  found  a  path.  Surely  the 
Cubans  had  named  it  right,  when  they  called  it 
The  Bull. 

In  the  morning  we  would  find  Havana,  money, 
new  clothes,  passage  to  the  United  States  and 
the   frozen   north   from   whence   we  had  come. 

[  106] 


What  of  it? 

You  can't  railroad  memory.  Technically,  we 
were  leaving  Cuba.  In  reality,  we  stayed ;  stayed 
there  where  our  recollections  were  and  where  we 
had  learned  the  greatness  of  a  philosophy  which 
makes  a  man  do  things — just  because.  Some 
day  we  are  going  back,  we  hope.  Some  day, 
when  the  new  government  has  spent  its  thirty 
millions  of  dollars  and  built  its  many  highways. 
We  are  going  back  to  rush  over  the  country  in  El 
Toro;  to  dash,  in  reckless  flight,  by  the  same 
places  where  we  struggled  up  the  hills  inch  by 
inch. 

Why?     Just  because. 

Casa  Cinco  to  Sancti  Spiritus — twenty-eight  miles. 
Havana  to  Sancti  Spiritus  —  313  miles. 


[107] 


44^&fi: 


^ 


i^C;^':  :^t^.>^-=:^^:y.C■:5«^;: 


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